Like a Hurricane
by Dread Pirate Rinja
Summary: A series of challenge one-shots featuring Gokudera; rating/pairing varies with each track. Track 05: 8059. Gokudera is in complete denial, because he absolutely refuses to admit that he's jealous. All new tracks will now be posted as individual fics.
1. 01: Tempesta di Sabbia: GEN

_Disclaimer: Katekyo Hitman Reborn! and all affiliated characters and settings are the creative property of Akira Amano, Shueisha, Weekly Shounen Jump, and any other companies holding the title to its license and distribution (VIZ Media, etc.). Used without permission for non-profitable entertainment purposes._

A few quick things before I begin:

This is going to be a series of (mostly) unconnected one-shots and ficlets for a challenge I picked up over at the 30 Ballads LiveJournal challenge community. It's basically a place where you claim a pairing or a character from any fandom, and then choose one of several lists of 30 songs to use as prompts (either using the title or the lyrics). I chose a mixed theme, meaning I pick any 30 songs from the lists available, and claimed Gokudera Hayato from Katekyo Hitman Reborn.

Secondly, this is an entirely experimental style of writing for me, so any feedback would be awesome. X3

OH – before I forget – **language and violence warning**, probably for all fics here. Welcome to the mafia, guys!

Thank you for reading!

* * *

_**Track 01 – Tempesta di Sabbia**  
theme song: Sandstorm – Darude_

A fierce wind blows, rattling the windowpanes and driving the trees into a high-pitched, creaking howl. The sounds of the raging storm permeate the room, its only occupant ignoring them as he taps his pencil against his large wooden desk in cadence with the _tick tick tick _of the antique Grandfather clock near the door. The tapping gets louder and more pronounced the longer he sits and stares at the papers scattered across the desk in front of him.

The timing – it's the timing that's bothering him. The summon to southeastern Italy during one of its coldest and windiest seasons, the fact that the Tenth's meeting with another family's boss is so late at night, the fact that Gokudera isn't there with them simply because he isn't welcome. He doesn't like how they speak Barese around him – _goddamn it, Italian is my native language too, fuckers _– and seem to be smug in the knowledge that he doesn't understand, except he _does _and the knowledge doesn't help his gut instinct. Or his mood.

So it's not entirely his fault that he doesn't trust their men – and besides, he didn't start the fight, but he sure as hell finished it. They should know better than to rile up Vongola the Tenth's right hand man.

Except now he's been exiled from the boss meeting over it, and of all people, the goddamned baseball freak is going in his place.

That, too – _that _irritates Gokudera even further, and he taps the pencil so hard against the desk now that it might break without him even noticing. Yamamoto hardly knows ten words in Italian; there's not a chance he would understand a word they're saying in Barese. And, need it be said again, Gokudera is _not comfortable _with the other family's current membership.

He's glaring down at the blueprints for the other family's estate (which is hosting them), scrutinizing the building where he _knows_ Tsuna is meeting with the other boss, trying to find escape routes and other means by which he might be able to break in. The estate backs up against the Adriatic Sea, and the family has its own private coast guard just off shore.

... He needs a fucking smoke.

It's been a while since he's smoked – he cut back drastically on his tobacco intake once he realized that the second hand smoke might start affecting the Tenth's health – but right now, it's all he really wants because it's what he does when he's frustrated and pissed and really can't do anything else about it. Stress relief, he tells himself.

So he braves the wind and goes outside to smoke on the beach. Fuck anyone who comes up and tells him otherwise – he's got a stick of dynamite that says he has a goddamned right.

It's hard to light up in the wind, but after a few tries, the end of the stick glows a blood red in the dark. Hardly enough light to see by, but he doesn't need to see to know that he's being watched. Keenly. Like predators about to pounce.

He snorts a breath of derisive laughter around the end of the cigarette in his mouth, thinking that it's about fucking time for round two.

A fist flies at his face in the dark, and he's already sidestepped the first fool to come forward. There's a surprised grunt when Gokudera feels shins connect against his outstretched leg, followed by a sand-muffled _thump_ when the attacker's body hits the beach. He's smirking, even though it's dark and they probably can't see much of his face even with the glowing end of the cigarette dangling from his lips.

There are a few angry mutters in the dark – nothing too loud, most of it muffled by wind – and there is a shuffling of feet in the sand around Gokudera as he stands there, eyes closed (not that having them open will make a difference in this light), listening. There are whispers in rapid Barese he doesn't quite catch, and two more suits come at him from separate ends.

With the quiet exhales of breath he barely hears over the wind as they put power behind their swings, there's something that isn't quite right about the way this goes down, and the thought forms a tight, worrisome knot in the pit of Gokudera's stomach. The more they swing – and miss – and stay silent – _too damned quiet_ – the more the knot tightens in his stomach. And then it hits him like a bucket of cold water, because they're being far too careful about the noise level even though there's the wind and the sand and these men are on their own territory.

It clicks.

_Traitors._ This whole trip has to be a set-up, they're smack in the middle of it, the Tenth is compromised – yet again, his own foolishness – and the irritation from earlier turns to stark panic, cold like ice in his belly.

The wind _stops_, but he doesn't even notice as he pulls out a handful of miniature dynamite, lighting the ends with his still-burning cigarette. Half, he spreads almost entirely around him – the other half, he throws down into the sand. He guards his face with his forearms, remembering what Shamal has reminded him time and again (in not so many kind words) – he can't protect the Tenth if he can hardly protect himself – and quickly sidesteps the explosions, following the last safe path.

Something sharp slides against his side, and it stings as it passes but he can't see what it is in the dark. The cigarette almost drops from his mouth in surprise, but he grits his teeth when he sees the blade swinging towards him a second time, he twists to let it past, and grabs the arm carrying with a vice grip and twists until he can see the rest of the man trying to gut him with a stiletto. These guys are really stubborn, Gokudera notes, and that makes him worry even more because they might not want him to leave this place alive.

The Tenth is definitely in danger, he decides, and gives the arm another vicious twist until it's behind the man and the muscles and bones are torqued until they're about to snap. The man opens his mouth to scream, and Gokudera growls _you should never have fucked with us_ just before he lights a stick of dynamite and shoves it between the man's lips, waiting until the fuse is almost gone before he drops the man's arm and dives away.

He doesn't look back to see the mess he leaving behind.

There's an open beach ahead of him, and he can see the lights on in the building where the Tenth is. Gokudera takes a step in that direction, staggers, and grits his teeth – he has to verify that nothing has been done yet to the Tenth. He can't help it; it's been almost eight years since they've returned from their own future, and Gokudera can't help but try to calculate the day that the attempt on Tsuna's life will take place. He's counting down, and every single meeting gone wrong becomes another suspicious event that will try to take the Tenth from him. He can't let that happen. That's all that matters to him at this point; fuck the inter-family politics that he's completely ignoring tonight.

There are grunts of pain behind him, and rapid, muffled footbeats against the sand force him to turn around again. He can't see in the dark, but he can hear – and he hears the man's yell moving in his direction. Stepping aside and ducking, the man's shoulder slams into his, and they both spin and fall to the ground. Gokudera gets his stability back first and slams the man into the ground, an arm pressing the man's throat down into the sand. His assailant swallows, the lump moving harshly against Gokudera's arm.

"What the fuck are you trying to pull?" Gokudera hisses. "Thought you guys were supposed to be making peace with ours."

The man's teeth are white enough to shine even in the dark as he smiles. "Y-You're just in the way of our goal," he says, and there's a predatory undertone in the man's voice that sends shivers down Gokudera's spine.

A small glint in the man's hands catches his attention, and Gokudera realizes that this time, it's not a knife or even a gun – it's a ring box, and there's a small green glow just before the box is all bright lights and crackling energy and paralyzing pain.

_Fuckfuckfuck_ – Gokudera grits his teeth against the agonizing pressure building in his chest, rolls away and grabs a box from his own side and presses his ring into it. His most familiar box weapon wraps itself around his forearm, the skull at his wrist demanding ammunition in glowing crimson words. Pulling himself to his knees, he presses a stick of dynamite into the opening, eyes narrowing as he stares directly at his target and imagines a concentrated blast of red flame that immediately comes to life out of the skull's mouth. He uses one of Shamal's breathing techniques as he fires.

Again, Gokudera is grateful that Shamal – in not so many words or blatantly obvious ways – has helped him understand the box weapons, despite the fact that the man seems to hate the fact that he's helping someone not belonging to the fairer sex. Shamal's claim that he helps Gokudera in the hope that he'll get closer to Bianchi is a weak one at best. Gokudera isn't stupid, nor does he truly understand the reason behind Shamal's assistance, but he's grateful.

All that's left of the other man is smoke and ash and sand, swirling in the air before it settles. Gokudera shudders as he tries to stand – he didn't notice when he'd fallen to his knees – and takes a deep breath, wincing as remnant pain flashes through his chest and side.

"Hayato!" he hears distantly, and he swears his heart stops, because that voice is the only one he wants to hear right now.

"T-Tenth!" he says hoarsely, eyes seeking and finding both Tsuna and Yamamoto standing just outside the building.

He takes a deep breath as he tries not to choke on the bubble of relief that's making its way up the back of his throat. By the look on the Tenth's face, he knows he's probably in trouble, but he doesn't care right now. The Tenth is here, alive, but still in danger, and he can't drop his guard yet. Instead, he forces himself to his feet, and – one glance at the enemy boss standing just feet away from _his_ family is all it takes for something in him to _snap_.

With a snarl, he lunges forward and pushes Tsuna aside as he grabs the other family's head man and slams him against the side of the building.

"What the _fuck_ are you trying to pull?" he roars in Italian, repeating the same question he asked an earlier subordinate and entirely ignoring Tsuna's startled pleas for him to _stop_, shrugging off Yamamoto's hand on his shoulder and not quite succeeding. "The Tenth insisted we come here on the good faith that _your_ family would not attack ours, despite every insistence of mine that your family is _trouble_. God, I was so fucking stupid to let him pull the blinders over his own eyes – give me one fucking good reason why I shouldn't just kill you _right now_!"

He's gasping for breath after this, because his injuries are a little more serious than he'd like to admit, and they're starting to catch up with his sore body. The boss' expression is one of pure shock, then anger, then confusion as Gokudera yells in his face, and he slumps.

"I'm sorry," is all he says, and his eyes can't meet Gokudera's. Gokudera blinks in surprise and almost drops the man, but then the words sink in and now he's _pissed_.

"You! You fucking _planned_ this, didn't you?" he snaps.

The boss' eyes meet his, and Gokudera can't ignore the _sadness_ in them – it nearly swallows him, and his grip loosens, but the other boss doesn't make any move to escape.

"Gokudera, what the _hell_ are you doing?" Tsuna's voice insists, and it's sharp enough to almost hurt. But Gokudera can't stop this now. "Put that man down, _now_!"

"I didn't," the boss says, also ignoring Tsuna entirely and focusing entirely on Gokudera. "But I did know that some of my men did not like what you Vongola stand for. I didn't realize that their hatred ran this deep. I'm sorry – I should have stopped them."

Gokudera isn't sure what to say to that, because he can tell that the man isn't lying – Gokudera can usually pick up a lie kilometers away, and he feels no deception in this man's words. Gritting his teeth in frustration, he slams one hand into the wall next to the man's head before he lets go and drops to his knees and fists in the sand, shaking as he presses his forehead to the ground.

This could have been it, is all he can think, and his mind is whirling so violently around relief and guilt and frustration and pain that he can't pull it together.

Yamamoto's large, calloused hand falls on his back, and Gokudera hates how much it's helping him harness his mind's roar into something less painful and confusing. Distantly, Tsuna and the other boss are talking apologetically – it sounds like the Tenth is finally, _finally_ no longer in danger – and orders are being yelled for a medic.

Funny, Gokudera thinks with a snort. Dead men don't need medical attention, but then one look at Yamamoto's frown informs him that he's said that aloud.

"It's not for them, Gokudera," is all Yamamoto says, and he looks positively _worried_. It's then that Gokudera remembers he's probably covered in blood and sand and burns.

"Don't need one," he insists, but his body won't stop _shaking_ and he's feeling light-headed and woozy when he tries to straighten and he's going to–

There are muffled voices above him, a hand on his forehead, and the ground under his back jolts his body every so often. They're moving somewhere, and he thinks he's on a stretcher but can't seem to find the energy to open his eyes. He still smells salt and fish and feels crisp, cool air on his face – they're still near the beach, or on it – and he hears a low whistle as they travel.

"God, I'm glad he's on _our_ side," a voice – Gokudera recognizes it as one of their own – says admirably.

"Sawada, remind me to never piss off your right hand man," the other boss' voice says in heavily accented Japanese, his voice low. They're looking at the destruction on the beach, Gokudera realizes, and it warms him, oddly, to feel recognized. It makes any pain worth bearing just to know that he's doing what he sets out to accomplish – ensuring the Tenth's safety at any cost.

It warms him even further when he hears Tsuna's voice – and there is _pride_ in those words, "He's the Guardian of Storm, after all."

* * *

_end track_

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Err, more to come? 8D Again, feedback is the most awesome of all awesome sauces!


	2. 02: Going Home: GEN

_Disclaimer: Katekyo Hitman Reborn! and all affiliated characters and settings are the creative property of Akira Amano, Shueisha, Weekly Shounen Jump, and any other companies holding the title to its license and distribution (VIZ Media, etc.). Used without permission for non-profitable entertainment purposes. Title comes from lyrics to Celldweller's "Tragedy"._

**Warnings:** violence (some non-graphic brutality), language, and 10-year-later arc spoilers.

If anyone who might have this on their alerts suddenly goes, "Who is this Dread Pirate Rinja person?"... er. This is still BakaBokken, just going under a different name, haha.

--

_**02 – Going Home (and I just can't make it all alone)**_

_theme song: Welcome Home – Metallica_

There is an uneasiness that settles in the pit of Gokudera's stomach as their plane lands in Rome. He hasn't been here in a long while, and the only reason he has agreed to come is because the Tenth is going – and he sure as hell isn't going to let Tsuna travel to fucking Italy with just the baseball freak to keep an eye on him. This is supposed to be something of a vacation, but Gokudera knows how Reborn's mind works; there's always a catch.

And the moment Reborn says, "Oh, by the way, Tsuna – Dino Cavallone is in town," Gokudera knows exactly what that catch is.

Dino hasn't exactly been acting like himself of late, according to rumors that have been floating around on the mafia channels. He's done a few things that even has Reborn frowning – or, as close to frowning as the baby can get – and it's causing unease among the Cavallones' allies. The Vongola are no exception, and Reborn is likely thinking of how Dino's strange behavior of late could impact their own family just by association.

Tsuna's eyes go wide and then narrow in sudden understanding after Reborn's revelation. There isn't anyone better to settle the matter than the Vongola's own Tenth boss.

... It doesn't settle well with Gokudera. They all know what Byakuran is capable of, even though they still haven't met him in this timeline. Perhaps they're about to, if Byakuran has found his way through Cavallone defenses at this point in time. It's the first thing that comes to Gokudera's mind in this situation – has Byakuran's reach already made it to Dino? Gokudera _can't _let the same happen to Tsuna. They already saw the future in which Uni's defenses were (might still be) flattened by whatever technique Byakuran can use. This isn't going to be the Tenth's job.

It's going to be the right hand man's job.

"I'll go," Gokudera says, before Tsuna can say anything, and putting a hand up in Yamamoto's direction even before he can open his mouth to protest – which he _will_. "Let me go in and see what the situation is first."

Tsuna gets a look on his face that Gokudera knows all too well – the one that says, _Like hell I'm going to let you – _says something about insulting a close friend and ally of his, but Gokudera's already opening his mouth to counter his boss.

"Tenth, this doesn't feel right. _Please_," he says, matching Tsuna's serious gaze with a resolute one of his own, "let me do this."

Much to Gokudera's surprise, Reborn's head is bobbing ever so slightly in an agreeing nod. Straightening his spine, he stands to his full height and musters as much steel into his eyes as he can as he looks down at Tsuna. It's not an attempt to bully – it's _not_, goddamn it – but Tsuna's old habit of pulling back returns and sends a stab of uncomfortable guilt into Gokudera's stomach. But... but he's resolved now; there's no turning back.

Tsuna ultimately bends, but only after Reborn vocalizes his support, and by the way he's sullenly silent for the rest of the night, he still doesn't like the idea.

And so Gokudera finds himself the next morning at the outer gates of the nearby Cavallone property, one of Dino's estates – and he's alone, (mostly) unarmed – because any unarmed mafia _would _be caught dead. There are butterflies in his stomach; there is something incredibly unsettling about the atmosphere here, and he's wishing now that he had Tsuna's insight, and the thought makes him want to kick himself repeatedly for cowardice. Because that's not why he's here – he's not here to make a damned fool of himself in the name of his boss.

It's not like Gokudera knows many of Dino's men by name or by face, but something about the men leading him towards the back of the complex tells Gokudera that they're new. Or, perhaps, simply stationed here in Italy most of the year – not part of the core group that Dino still relies on when he goes abroad. They're leading him towards a large, old warehouse sitting in the far corner of the estate, and it looks sorely out of place, like a sore thumb. Gokudera shivers and doesn't feel right, but he refuses to insult the Cavallone – cause Vongola, especially Tsuna, to lose face – just on sheer instinct.

The warehouse is cold, dank, and smells of old socks. Gokudera looks around at the cobweb-coated ceilings and mildly observes that even the windows aren't letting in much light off the river. He's a little surprised that any property of Dino's could be left in such a dilapidated state. There's an approaching clack of dress shoes on concrete and a clearing of throats, and Gokudera shifts his gaze forward to greet the Cavallone entourage accompanying Dino.

One thing has never changed about Dino; he always keeps a group of his most loyal men close by, and draws strength from them. That thought is almost a comfort, and it lasts only until Gokudera's eyes level with Dino's, and– he freezes.

They're _blank._

And now Gokudera knows exactly what's wrong, because he's seen it before – but he's caught off guard, because it's only been six years and there shouldn't be this kind of an issue for another two, at the very least–

_Goddamn it, this was a fucking bad idea._

Dino's smile sends a shiver down Gokudera's spine. "Gokudera-san," Dino greets in polite Japanese, his bow almost too formal. "What do we owe the pleasure?"

Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly through his nose before replying – _can't panic, cannot fucking panic – _Gokudera forces a returned smile and says in Italian, "I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop by."

"Just you, then?" Dino seems almost disappointed – _stop panicking –_ and looks behind Gokudera briefly as if confirming the fact that the Vongola Tenth's right hand man is indeed alone. "I apologize I didn't have any tea prepared; I wasn't expecting guests."

_Like hell you weren't. _

– It takes a split second too long for Gokudera to hear the shuffle of feet behind him, and they catch him just as he's turning to defend himself when the lights go out. He lashes out behind him and catches a soft lump of flesh with his elbow, a soft exclamation of surprised breathlessness giving him the briefest of satisfactions before two other sets of hands grab his arms and knock him onto his face into the warehouse floor. There's a sharp knee pressing into the small of his back and he can't move.

"Son of a _bitch_." The last word sends dust flying from Gokudera's lips, pressed into the dirty cement. And it's not just directed at the Cavallone.

"It's a shame you couldn't bring your boss with you; it would have made things so much easier," is all he hears Dino say before bright lights flash in his vision, and then all is even blacker than the dark of the dank warehouse.

It only feels like a split second, but the next snatch of awareness Gokudera has is of an actual bright light shining in his eyes. Startled, he jerks away from the sharp intrusion on his dilated pupils only to find his hands bound tightly behind his back, and his ankles lashed firmly to the legs of the cold metal chair he's sitting in.

All he can think is, _Fuckfuckfuck, _because the worst of his fears isn't supposed to be happening, especially not in a country he already associates with a lot of unpleasantness.

"Ah, you're finally awake, Gokudera."

The voice is cold, flat, and far too unfamiliar_,_ and even though it's Dino's body, Gokudera glowers at the impostor hiding behind the too-bright lamp shining in his eyes.

"You're not him," he accuses. "What did you do with Dino?"

When Dino laughs, Gokudera _understands _what it means to fear – and this isn't a healthy respect this time, either. He's fucking terrified.

"And here I was thinking Sawada was the only one capable of insight out of you Vongola," Dino says – and Gokudera may not be able to see the smile, but he sure as hell can hear it.

Squirming in the bonds, he sends a glare at the light – quickly turns into a squint – and says, "Doesn't take much insight. You're a godawful actor, whoever you are."

The silhouette shifts, and there's a soft laugh. "Regardless, it worked well enough," Dino's voice says with amusement. "Almost as well as I'd have hoped."

Dino moves forward, broad shoulders blocking the light, and before Gokudera's eyes can adjust, there are ice cold fingers gripping his chin and forcing him to look at a face obscured in shadow. Everything feels wrong, _so fucking wrong_, and Gokudera tries – unsuccessfully – to jerk his head out of the grip.

"Fuck you," Gokudera snarls, and spits into the face leering down at him.

The fingers release his chin and he feels an equally cold palm patting his cheek. "Good, there's some fight in you. This should make my job more interesting."

Those words create a pit of ice in Gokudera's stomach, but he's determined not to let it show on his face – if it's for the Tenth's safety, he will endure. He _has _to. But he just doesn't know what to expect from not-Dino, because he knows full well this isn't anything like dealing with Mukuro. As much as Gokudera can't quite bring himself to trust their own Mist Guardian, there's not a chance that Mukuro could possibly be the one behind Dino's dark stare.

Gokudera's earlier fears bubble up through his chest again, and his jaw tenses painfully because he knows that he can't do anything about it in his current state. Something he can't quite pin – a feeling, a hunch, perhaps some of the Tenth's intuition that somehow rubbed off on him – tells him that he should be afraid. That he's right, and _goddamn _if he doesn't want to be.

Because if he's right, Byakuran is ahead of the previous timeline. _Way _ahead. And that's a major problem, because if Byakuran is already on the move–

He tries hard not to swallow the bile rising in the back of his throat. Tries hard not to let his fears show, but he knows he isn't doing so well because his hands are shaking despite the fact that they're tied behind his back with thick, rough rope. All he can think is, _The Tenth is in danger, have to get back–_

Hands covered in leather gloves creak in front of him, the light catching on the brass knuckle like it's some kind of God-given artifact. The smile is still on not-Dino's face, but it's turned into something even more sinister, and it's _wrong, completely wrong_ on Dino's usually friendly face. Gokudera's stomach turns, even at the inevitable.

"You're going to tell me where your Boss is," says not-Dino, "and then you're going to tell me how I might arrange an appointment with him."

Gokudera purses his lips stubbornly, relieved that they aren't quivering. _Hit me,_ he thinks, because he isn't going to say a goddamned word. _I fucking dare you–_

White lights and stars take over his vision, and his ears won't stop ringing as he feels like there's something still pressing against his cheek. It hurts just as much as he anticipated, but not more, and with the first blow out of the way, this isn't going to be as hard as he feared, he thinks. Licking his swelling lip, he glares up at a face that he should have been able to trust.

"I just want to have a talkwith your Boss." The leather creaks around the flexing hand again. "Is that too much to ask, from the high and mighty Vongola?"

"It is for you," Gokudera snaps, then stars flash in his vision again with the back of a hand.

Not-Dino clicks his tongue disapprovingly and says, mockingly, "It's a shame, really – I thought your family had more manners than this."

Gokudera runs his tongue over the growing bump in his lip again, this time tasting blood from where the flesh split. "You've clearly never spoken to me before, you douchebag."

There's a short bark of laughter, and not-Dino leans in closer again, bringing with him the faint smell of leather and stale cigarette smoke. "It's a wonder that Vongola Decimo puts up with your atrocious etiquette," he sneers, and adds, "But perhaps it isn't so strange – Sawada isn't much of a mafia boss anyway."

It's one thing when someone insults Gokudera personally. He can handle it – he has his entire life, anyway – but this jackass' accusations against the Tenth are unacceptable. Snarling, ignoring the spittle that dribbles down his chin (or is it blood?) as his blood boils.

"You have no fucking idea what kind of a man the Tenth is, you son of a bitch! How _dare_ you insult someone you hardly know? Bastard!" Gokudera's voice is harsh with rage and frustration, and it hurts his throat in the process. But he doesn't care, because this man insulted the only person that Gokudera believes is worth giving up his own life for.

And not-Dino is grinning, which suddenly makes Gokudera feel all kinds of stupid – he's letting the the man get to him, and that's not acceptable either in this kind of a situation.

"Ohoho, struck a nerve, have I? Perhaps you should introduce me to him so I can see for myself that he is worth defending."

Gokudera grits his teeth and looks away, but stays quiet at the blatant baiting. He can't afford to slip any more than he already has. The most important thing now is that the Tenth stays safe – and at this point, Gokudera is thankful to whatever gods decided to bestow the gift of Hyper Intuition upon Tsuna, because if not-Dino figures out that Tsuna's in Italy...

_No. Not going to happen._

There's another click of not-Dino's tongue. "Not feeling so talkative now, then? Why don't we loosen that tongue of yours."

That's all the warning Gokudera has before there's a blow across his face that's a _lot _harder than the last time – feels like his cheekbone is going to shatter under the impact – and he's blind and his ears are ringing and feel like they're stuffed with cotton. He thinks he might have lost consciousness this time, and distantly wonders if not-Dino hit him with the brass knuckles.

It feels like only a split second before the black spots clear from his sight, and a fuzzy outline of not-Dino's face takes darkness' place. His cheek feels like someone is still pressing against it, and it throbs in time with his heartbeat – _pounding –_ as he tries to focus. The way his ears are still ringing and the fact that not-Dino sounds like he's speaking from a distance away underwater – this tells him that his earlier assessment likely wasn't too far off the mark.

When he finally catches his breath enough to groan, he can't help the hot tears pricking his eyes and momentarily hates his own body's instinctive response. _This is how it's going to be_, he realizes as he gingerly rubs his tongue across his bleeding lip. No turning back now. It's say nothing or die a coward.

Question, silence, pain. Question, silence, pain – their conversation continues in this manner, no matter what question is asked, Gokudera keeps his tongue in check.

Question – w_here is Sawada? – _silence, pain. His nose feels like it's going to fall off.

Question –_ where is the nearest Vongola estate? – _silence, pain. He spits out a broken tooth.

_Where are the other Guardians? _Broken fingers. And, _Do they know you're here? _– it's all the same question, anyway, and Gokudera doesn't understand why they're bothering to ask him still – the cost of this round of silence is a crushed toe.

Question – _what exactly is your relationship with Sawada? – _and Gokudera doesn't understand why that matters, unless they plan to use him as bait. But they don't get that it's already in his job description, and it's not like the Tenth is going to personally come and get him. Reborn knows better than that. But he still doesn't say anything of the matter, because it won't do him any good; he's got stars blinking across his eyes now and a sore neck from his head snapping around so much, and it's on to the next question.

Several questions later, and Gokudera isn't sure he can see out of his left eye anymore – it's swollen, and his cheek feels like it's as broken as his nose is now. He doesn't even want to think about the mess his fingers have become; they hurt every fucking bit as much as he'd been told they would, if broken. Instead of feeling miserable and scared, he's just _tired_.

And all these questions – the same, all the same – begin to chip away at a defense he didn't know he had up. Question, silence and a pinprick of doubt, and then Gokudera's sure his face looks like it's been run through a meat grinder at this point. Feels like it. Each question makes that pinprick of doubt a little harsher, a little sharper, cutting deeper, and it makes him wonder what's transpiring in the Tenth's office. Now every question they ask him, he asks one for himself.

_Do they know where you are? _becomes, _Do they even notice you're still gone?_

_Why did you come alone? _is now, _Was it Reborn's intention for me to be here like this?_

_How close are you to Sawada? _means, _Does the Tenth even care?_

At that thought, he finally starts to panic, and he talks.

"Are we done yet? My neck's getting stiff," he says, trying hard not to let it show in his face that he's starting to doubt even himself. His voice cracks anyway, but he thinks it's because it might be dry instead. The room's spinning out of control.

There's a pause, then a sharp blow to his gut that knocks the wind out of him. Stars sparkle around the edges of his vision.

He opens his eyes again, realizing then that he has been unconscious – and he's alone, he thinks. For the time being. Still tied to the chair, he tries to look around the room, but his abused head throbs and his bruised stomach churns and it takes all the self-control he can muster to keep himself from revisiting whatever is left in his stomach. He has a bad, bad feeling that the damage done isn't so minor, but he can't dwell on that because he _knows _it will become another weak spot in his carefully-constructed armor.

Not that he hasn't already shown them a weak spot – they just don't know it yet. Obviously didn't take advantage of the one opening he's given them so far, and he's not about to give them another. He hasn't followed the Tenth to hell and back to start casting doubts at the person who changed his life (for the better, he hopes).

But Gokudera still wonders if his family is even looking for him. How long has he been here now, anyway? The hours are distorted, disguised as minutes, sometimes as days – it's like a fucking game that Mukuro would play–

_Or perhaps Reborn. _Lights go on, Dino smiles apologetically, everyone laughs and it's one big fucking joke on him for the sake of training. _Hah. Haha._

He shudders at that thought, wincing and hissing softly as the movement sends fire along his damaged nerves. The room's still dark, no shout of _surprise! Just kidding! _But the doubt begins to grow again, and this time it's not Tsuna he's worried about; it's the fact that Reborn sent him here, alone, and that it's _Dino _he's stuck with. His mind whirs, trying to place the puzzle pieces when he realizes one crucial detail: This really isn't Dino.

Whoever he's dealing with, that individual knows how to do something that Gokudera has only seen Mukuro pull off successfully. And then he recalls the first time they faced Mukuro – wasn't there a bullet involved? Gokudera can't remember too well, because parts of his memory of that fight are blurred with his own hands moving on their own accord, trying to steal life from the very person he tries his hardest to protect. That isn't something he likes to dwell on.

But the bullet – that part is important. If this isn't Mukuro he's dealing with, then there's someone else who knows how to use it. And if it really is Byakuran behind the strings leering down from the shadows above their own little stage, then Gokudera's entire family is in serious trouble. The future they all saw never involved contraband Possession Bullets.

Gokudera's mind is racing now, almost as much as his breath. His chest hurts, but he can't tell if it's from his injuries at this point, or if he's panicking _too fucking much – _he knows he is. He can't help but continue down this path, like a hunting dog on the scent of its prey. Didn't Byakuran have the ability to manipulate minds in general as well? He never was able to possess anyone, to Gokudera's knowledge (and he knew quite a bit about the Byakuran they met in the future), but if Byakuran had indeed managed to get his fingers on the Possession Bullet...

"You're awake, Gokudera Hayato." Gokudera sucks in a startled breath, then hisses it back out as pain flares through his ribs. It's Dino's voice, but using a tone very similar to something Gokudera's heard before–

And Gokudera realizes he's on the right track.

He smiles.

"Ready to talk now?"

_He has no fucking clue._ Gokudera's smile broadens triumphantly; he relishes the feeling even as his cracked lips begin to bleed again. If he knows who he's dealing with, he knows he's less likely to show any more weaknesses. He's been hurt worse than this before – what's the worst they could do to him?

... Perhaps he shouldn't think about that, but at any rate, Byakuran is hesitating. That much is a start in Gokudera's new plan to unnerve the bastard as much as he possibly can. Maybe he can figure out a way to get Dino to wake the fuck up and shove the intrusive son of a bitch out, because he knows that Tsuna won't like his friends being used this way.

Tsuna isn't going to like any of this, come to think of it. He snorts, and he realizes only after the fact that it sounds like a laugh, though there's no humor in the situation he's in right now.

"What's so damned funny?"

But maybe there _is_ humor here, because now he has the upper hand – screw the fact that he's tied into this fucking chair and beat all to hell and–

There's a huff of breath, all the warning Gokudera has before stars explode in his vision again. It's a familiar pain, one that Gokudera has no trouble compartmentalizing and shifting to the back of his mind. He'll save that for later, when he can afford the luxury to care.

"Hit me harder – I don' see li'l Dino-pixies flyin' 'round m'head yet," Gokudera says, not really caring that words aren't coming out properly anymore.

Not-Dino – _Byakuran –_ answers Gokudera's request, almost a little too quickly. He's dizzy again, and knows it's probably a bad idea to be baiting someone who wouldn't hesitate to kill him should he find a good enough reason to, but he can't help himself.

"Y'wanted me to talk, didn'tcha?" Gokudera slurs. "M'talkin' now, bastard." He pauses a second before he adds, "Fuck you."

He swear he can hear not-Dino's teeth grinding together from where he sits, but there's only a beat of silence before a sigh, and then, "If you're not going to say anything useful, then you're not worth anything to us."

Gokudera snorts. _No shit._ But he catches himself before he says something incredibly stupid, like,_ probably_, or anything that would tell Byakuran that he knows _exactly _who he's fucking with; it would be a pretty bad idea to get himself killed, because he knows something important now – something Tsuna needs to know.

He has to get out of here.

It occurs to him then that he's only been bound with rope, and not metal – it's something that can be manipulated, stretched, broken at the right tension. At this point, he's willing to sacrifice the skin on his wrists if he can just get his ring around to one of the boxes strapped to his hips–

–He still has his ring, despite the broken finger it's resting on. And the boxes, and– this means that Byakuran doesn't know about any of this just yet. _This is going to be easier than I thought_.

He smirks, closes his eyes, and focuses; feels the flame without needing to see it, as it sputters to life around the ring. The training in the future has already been paying itself off. The flame's force is so strong that it already weakens the ropes around his wrists. There's a shuffle in the dark around him –_ out of time, damn it_ – and he opens his eyes and pulls as hard as he can, ignoring the burning, tearing feeling at his wrists as the cords break with a loud _snap_.

Doesn't matter that there are hands reaching for his arms and shoulders. It's his turn, now.

Gokudera doesn't hesitate as he slams the ring into the first box he can reach, hoping to God that it's the skull weapon. A flash of light, a poof of smoke, and–

There's a fierce growl as sharp claws graze Gokudera's cheek.

_... Fuck. _

Except that Uri's already growling, growing, and – despite the cat's angry swipes in Gokudera's direction, he realizes that the damn cat is actually trying to help him, in its own sick, twisted way. Not exactly the box he's looking for, but it'll do for the time being. He reaches down and works to free his ankles from the chair.

Uri's growl is fierce and sends a shudder down even Gokudera's spine as the cat moves its paws in front of him protectively, herding Gokudera – now free – towards what he hopes is an exit. The cat likely can see better than he can in this light, though the dying will flames are definitely improving the amount of distance he can see in the dank, dark room. He takes the time to feel for the right box this time, and shoves his ring into the opening at the top.

The familiar skull weapon wraps itself around his forearm, and he aims it in front of him at the moving shadows.

At this point, there's still a lot of smoke from the box releases hanging heavily in the air, and though the lights are dim, Gokudera can see a lot of bodies moving around as silhouettes in the smoke screen. Muttered curses float from all directions, and Gokudera has to wonder how many of them there are blocking him from his exit.

No matter, he's going to take them down on his way out. A little payback for what they've been doing to him for however long he's been here.

First things first – he's going after Byakuran, his Dino suit be damned. It'll be difficult, because Tsuna would be upset if Dino was seriously hurt, but Gokudera doesn't have a choice in this matter if he wants to survive the trip out of here. And none of the other assholes with Byakuran are true Cavallone, anyway – Gokudera didn't recognize a single face, when he was able to see them. Have to be Byakuran's, which means they're fair game in Gokudera's mind.

Except Byakuran finds him first, with a harsh blow to the back of his knees that sends him crashing to the ground. He catches himself on hands with broken fingers, and the white-hot pain that flares up his arms is almost enough to knock him out.

"Think you're so fucking smart, you brat," Byakuran hisses in Dino's voice. "Well, you've got another thing coming if you think you're getting out of here alive at this point."

Gokudera's trying to catch his breath, but doesn't have the opportunity when Byakuran pulls out the whip that Dino's so fond of using. The end of it strikes his back with a sharp _crack_, and he can't stop the pained, surprised cry from escaping his lips. Uri growls, whirling on Byakuran and taking a swipe at the man. Byakuran has the sense to avoid the claws, but the cat's massive paw still connects and sends him flying.

"Th-Thanks, Uri," Gokudera finds himself saying automatically. The cat simply rolls a half-meowing growl back at him, and turns to look for more prey.

It takes too long for Gokudera to find his feet again, with the way his knees are shaking. The adrenaline and determination to complete the goddamned mission he's given himself – these can only do so much for his battered body; he's having trouble breathing, and his hands are on fucking _fire_. He grits his teeth and pulls out dynamite with his broken fingers anyway, because they're going to need more firepower to get out of here.

_Here goes nothing._

He hurls the bombs at the moving shadows, making sure not to hit the cat, blocking his face from the shockwave of heat that accompanies the chest-rattling _boom _of the explosion. The brief flash of bright light illuminates the door just long enough for him to locate it – on the other side of the room – as he staggers back a few steps from the force of the blast. Taking several shaky steps in the right direction, he hopes that he'll be able to get there before anyone else can find him.

There's a metallic clang as the door flies open, and the overhead lights flicker to life, so bright to Gokudera's unadjusted eyes that he has to squint.

"Gokudera!"

That voice – he could swear that his heart stops at this moment, his chest burning from not breathing for that split second. Bright lights be damned, Gokudera's eyes fly open as he searches the room for the familiar face of his boss, and he's torn between relief and an overwhelming, giddy warm feeling bubbling in his stomach as he realizes he hasn't been forgotten–

It all fades, the moment he sees Byakuran twist Dino's mouth into a smirk from across the room. There's a raised gun in his hands–

"Tenth! Get out of here, now!"

Tsuna's eyes widen in worry and confusion, and there isn't going to be enough time, _damn it I've failed again, _there's only one option left before he really will have to bury Tsuna–

He remembers every detail of the coffin in the future, and grits his teeth against the memory.

_No. Not this time._

He moves.

_--_

There's only one place Gokudera goes in his dreams, and while it's in Italy, it's never about the location, because honestly, he rather hates what he once called his homeland. Instead, it's about a room, bright with natural light let in from skylights and tall bay windows, and the baby grand piano that sits in the middle of all that light – a private stage.

His fingers brush the smooth ivory of the keys, instinct guiding them as they press and brush against the keys in a soft cadence. The piano is well-tuned, the music absorbing into and echoing perfectly off of the room's acoustic features, and he lets his mind drift, the music washing over him like cool water on a summer's day. These moments, he cherishes – there aren't many of them that aren't tainted with memories of bad cookies and poisoned sandwiches forced down his throat as a child for the sake of the art.

Instead of his father watching with an unreadable glint in his eyes, there are only a handful of other people in the room, all taking on faces of people he considers his family. The Tenth. The baseball freak. That damn woman, the stupid cow, that damn cat curled up on the armrest of the couch they're all sitting on, even his half-sister, eyes covered in goggles. These are the only people he would ever wish to play for, after all. Alive, well, safe – and it's at this point he realizes that this is just a pleasant dream, one he doesn't want to wake up from.

_This, _what he has in front of him – this is what he calls home. And it feels like it's been a lifetime since he's had one.

He plays on, through the first movement, and second, and on to the third, well on his way to the tenth – but it's halfway through the sixth that a hand lands on his, stopping him. He looks up in confusion, only to see the room and the piano and everything else fading – and Tsuna's face is sad as it fades.

"It's time to wake up, Gokudera," Tsuna says, softly. His grip tightens around Gokudera's hand.

And against all of his instincts to stay and hide from the world, to cling to this dream as stubbornly as he can, there's no way he can disobey an order from the Tenth.

He gasps as his eyes fly open, wincing when the pain sinks its sadistic claws deep into his body, and frowning as it fades as quickly as it hits him. It takes a moment for him to blink at the ceiling and realize that it actually _is _white, not just blurry, and that he's attached to an IV with some extremely strong drugs attached. _Hospital. _

_And_ – there's still a hand gripping his.

"Thank God," he hears Tsuna say hoarsely, and the stark relief in Tsuna's voice causes Gokudera's mind to race.

_Dino. Cavallone estate, a warehouse, a dank, dark room with a single light shining in his eyes. No, no; not Dino – Byakuran. Possession Bullet. Have to tell the Tenth– _

Gokudera tries to sit up too quickly, but his throat burns and he's choking on something and can't breathe, and _god, the pain –_ he feels more than one set of hands easing him back down, worried voices floating over his head.

"M'okay," he mutters irritably, but it's muffled by something in his mouth. He hears a familiar – _annoying –_ _no, not annoying – _laugh.

"See? He'll be just fine," the baseball freak says. "You should go sleep, Tsuna – I can take over from here."

Gokudera doesn't have the strength to protest, though he does register several different whispered voices in the room and distantly wonders just how many people there are in that room with him. The sound of evenly-timed hissing air drowns them out, and eventually his head's throbbing so loudly that it outshouts even the hissing sounds.

The next time he wakes up, Yamamoto's reading a book as he sits in the chair next to the bed. It's a book on baseball strategy – _go figure, _he thinks – but it's quickly set aside once Yamamoto looks up and meets his gaze.

"Hey! You're awake!"

Gokudera's nose wrinkles into as much of a snarl as he can manage. "Thanks... Captain Obvious," he grinds out, his throat still burning.

He coughs, and Yamamoto blinks before saying, "Oh!" as he scrambles to grab a plastic cup with a straw sticking out of it.

Yamamoto looks tired, Gokudera realizes as he drinks as much of the cool water as he can handle. Too much worrying going on here. He's not dead – not gonna die now, if he's awake.

"Go home," he says, voice still rough and hoarse.

There's a laugh, and then a serious stare. "We're still in Italy – it'd be back to a hotel room, anyway. Not like I can get around alone on my bad Italian," Yamamoto replies, smiling.

Gokudera scowls. "Study... then."

Yamamoto just laughs this time, and Gokudera's suddenly finding himself too tired to say something irritable in reply. He watches through half-closed eyelids as Yamamoto's smile disappears, replaced with a worried frown when he thinks Gokudera isn't watching. Yamamoto pulls out his cell phone and dials a number, speaking in soft, stern tones to whoever is on the other end of the line. Gokudera falls back asleep before he can concentrate on what Yamamoto's saying over the phone, and decides that the next time he wakes up, he's insisting on taking away the damned drugs.

The next snatch of awareness, Gokudera feels cool, soft hands smoothing his hair back from his face, and an unfamiliar voice speaking in a worried tone. There's a feminine voice replying from close by, and it takes a moment of gut-twisting instinct to realize that it's Bianchi sitting with him this time. He refuses to open his eyes this time, just in case his stomach rebels – and he slips away again.

Finally, he wakes in increments, and realizes that he doesn't hurt as much, and that there isn't a fuzzy, cottony feeling between his ears when he opens his eyes. Tsuna's there, smiling gently at him with a sad relief that only the Tenth can manage.

"Hey," Tsuna says, voice thick. "Welcome back."

Gokudera's lips feel too dry and swollen to smile back, but he tries anyway and gets almost halfway there. The drugs aren't as strong – the aches and pains might be less overwhelming, but they're sharper than before and linger longer – and he blinks, trying to get the whole room into focus now. Yamamoto is asleep in the chair across the room, snoring loudly, baseball book drooped over his face.

"How long?" Gokudera asks, voice still feeling a bit raspy. He clears it with a close-mouthed cough and a wince.

"Three days," Tsuna replies, looking away. "Six, if you count how long you were held captive. We thought we were going to lose you."

Gokudera frowns – _that long?_ – but then realizes Tsuna is scrutinizing him with a worried expression. He tries for the smile again. "Nah, can't kill me," he says – slowly, because it's what he has the energy for. "M'fucking indestructible."

Tsuna snorts, and it's as much laughter as Gokudera could expect from him in this situation. He'll take whatever he can get. He looks at Tsuna carefully.

"You okay?" he asks.

Tsuna nods. "... Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I'm just fine. You're the one in the hospital."

Gokudera winces. "M'sorry, Tenth."

"N-No!" Tsuna exclaims, waving his hands in front of his face in protest. "No, I should be the one saying sorry. If I'd been able to find you sooner–"

"It wasn't exactly easy to find," Gokudera insists. "It's... It's not your fault – you did what you could. You came, didn't you?"

Tsuna still doesn't look too happy, but Gokudera doesn't have another chance to try to comfort him when Yamamoto startles awake, his book dropping to the floor with an unceremonious _thud._ He blinks, then looks up at Gokudera and smiles that damned goofy grin of his.

"You're back!" he says, almost too cheerfully. "Good, I'll go tell the doctor–"

Gokudera tries to stop him, but doesn't open his mouth to protest in time.

Tsuna doesn't bring up the subject again.

_--_

Gokudera brings it up later, when they're about to get off the private jet. His back and rear and legs are stiff from sitting still for so long, but he aches too much to move them around much just yet – and he refuses to let any of this show on his face as he regards Tsuna seriously.

Tsuna looks horrified at first, when Gokudera talks about what he discovered while he was being held captive. But the horror fades, to be replaced with anger, and then worry as he looks back at the visible bandages on Gokudera's hands. He resists the urge to hide them under the Boss' stare, because they're going to have to come to terms with it sooner or later. Now's as good a time as any, really.

"I wish it hadn't happened _there_," Tsuna finally says, once Gokudera finishes speaking.

Gokudera blinks, at first misunderstanding what Tsuna says. "Dino's okay – that's all that matters, isn't it? I still trust him." The look on Tsuna's face tells him he's totally missed the meaning, and his mouth forms a silent, "Oh" once he gets it.

He's quiet for a moment, staring at his hands, thinking. A breath, and, "Italy isn't exactly a home to me, Tenth," he says after a beat. When Tsuna starts looking upset, Gokudera waves his hands to stop him and says, quickly, "A-A home is somewhere that you can go to escape the world, where you're most comfortable, right? Well... doesn't that count, when you're with the people you care the most about? Italy just isn't that place."

Tsuna's eyes widen as he thinks about it, then he sighs with a small smile once Gokudera's words sink in. "I guess you're right about that, Gokudera," he replies.

The air clears, and the rest of the ride seems far more comfortable, despite the physical annoyances of having a bruised and battered body on the mend. But when Tsuna turns around, Gokudera relaxes back into his seat, and falls asleep with a stupid smile on his face (he can't help it if the stupid baseball freak is rubbing off on him) as Tsuna and Yamamoto hold a quiet conversation in the seats in front of him.

Gokudera is forced into a wheelchair and still feels like a mummy when they disembark from the plane, back in Japan – _finally –_ and back to the limo that's waiting for them at the airport. Yamamoto pushes the wheelchair, and Tsuna walks ahead – goes to the limo first and opens the door, smiling back at Gokudera as he does so.

"Welcome home," he says.

Gokudera blinks in surprise, and then smiles.

"I'm home."

_end track 02_


	3. 03: Two Knights Endgame: 8059ish

_Disclaimer: Katekyo Hitman Reborn! and all affiliated characters and settings are the creative property of Akira Amano, Shueisha, Weekly Shounen Jump, and any other companies holding the title to its license and distribution (VIZ Media, etc.). Used without permission for non-profitable entertainment purposes._

_**Warnings: **__Rated R (barely) for violence, language, hurt/comfort, and – if you want to see it – mild implications of 8059. Yes, I succumbed, and am a horrid hypocrite. BAH._

_TYL-ish timeline, give or take; they're all a bit older (and sometimes wiser, but not always). Also, if you're wondering about where the title for this particular installment came from, look it up on wikipedia. ;)  
_

_

* * *

It was a dream and then hit me, reality struck  
And now my life is all shifty and it all moves fast  
Close to a buck 50 and we all stand strong  
In respect to the family in times of insanity  
And through words of profanity  
I describe our dysfunctional family  
Blood Brothers keep it real to the end  
Deeper than the thoughts you think, not a trend.  
_(From Blood Brothers by Papa Roach)

* * *

**Track 03 – Two Knights Endgame**_  
theme song: Blood Brothers – Papa Roach_

Yamamoto stands at the entrance to Tsuna's hospital room, a Styrofoam cup of hot coffee in each hand, and for a moment, he just watches the constant profile of the one person who has refused to leave Tsuna's side. Gokudera stares down at the bed, and probably doesn't even realize he's doing so as the _beep beep beep _of the heart monitor punctuates the choking silence. It isn't hard to imagine that Gokudera's trying to take responsibility for the problem at hand, that he's stuck in the should-have, could-have, but _didn't-do-it-right_ cycle. Yamamoto clears his throat and prepares a weak smile as he shuts the door behind him. Gokudera's eyes are now on him, and– yes, he was stuck in that cycle of thinking. Now, he just looks worn and exhausted and frustrated.

"Coffee?" He offers one to Gokudera, who all but snatches it out of his hand.

It's nothing personal, really – Yamamoto just lets his smile grow instead of taking offense. He watches, trying not to let the smile slip as he watches Gokudera toss back the coffee in one sip like it's water – it was pretty hot; he hopes it didn't burn Gokudera's throat – and tosses the cup into the wastebasket next to the occupied bed.

"You know," Yamamoto says, after a breath – "sleep would work better."

Gokudera glares at him, but there isn't much fight behind it. "Fuck off," he snarls, and that too falls somewhat flat; there are dark-ringed bags under his eyes. He looks away, focusing back down at the sleeping face of their boss.

The unspoken message is clear: Not moving until the Tenth wakes up. Put in more vulgar language than that, Yamamoto muses – this time, the smirk's genuine – but the same message, nonetheless. And it's not like Gokudera seems too pleased with him anyway, so…

"The doctors say he's stabilizing, and should be coming around pretty soon."

Gokudera's shoulders tense, and there's a slip of the frowning mask he tries so desperately to keep firmly plastered to his face – the glimmer of hope doesn't go unnoticed.

"Yeah? Well, then looks like I won't have to wait too long."

Yamamoto laughs. "I guess not, then." And he sits down in the seat on the other side of the bed.

Ah, and there's the look – the _what the hell do you think you're doing_ one that Gokudera loves to use so often on him. Yamamoto ignores it, and looks over at Tsuna, his own mind going through what happened. They still don't know who was behind the car bomb that almost claimed their boss, but once they do find out, Yamamoto doesn't doubt there will be swift retribution. This isn't the first attempt on Tsuna's life in recent days, though it's the closest their unknown enemies have come to succeeding thus far. It's a bit worrisome, because Yamamoto can think of at least four or five different _famiglia _who might want to end Tsuna's life – and two of those are Vongola allies.

This won't be the last attempt, either. Yamamoto isn't so foolish as to ignore the fact that the near-success of this particular attack will only bring more dangerous situations ahead. He will never admit it to anyone else, but he worries a great deal about the day when the strength of the Guardians won't make a difference, when the bullet will slip through their tight defenses and find its way to the heart of the Vongola.

"Don't let your brain explode," Gokudera's voice suddenly says. Yamamoto blinks across the bed at him, confused for a moment before the Storm Guardian adds, "Might cause an aneurysm, thinking."

Yamamoto blinks again, and then suddenly laughs – a joke from Gokudera is rare enough. Shame, because sometimes the guy doesn't know how hilarious he can be. Gokudera scowls more and crosses his arms with a frustrated growl.

"What?"

"Nothing," Yamamoto replies. "It's just… nothing."

* * *

It's another day until Tsuna wakes up enough to speak lucidly. It's a relief to everyone, and most especially, Gokudera – Yamamoto expects him to collapse at any time now that the urgent, uncertain worry is no longer there to keep his friend on his feet. But before Yamamoto can coax Gokudera back to the Vongola estate to get some rest, his phone vibrates in his pocket, and he curses as he realizes he's forgotten to turn it off. He quickly excuses himself to go down the hall to the cell phone area in the hospital before he calls back the number on the screen.

'_Yamamoto – thank God. I thought I was going to have to send someone over there.'_

"… Kusakabe?" Yamamoto blinks. This is rather unexpected.

'_There's no time for chit-chat. Look, I have one piece of advice for you – keep the Nori family out of the area. They're the ones who are trying to kill Tsuna.'_

Yamamoto's throat clenches, the smile completely gone. "Wait, _what_? Why would the Nori family–"

'_Working on it. Hey, I can't talk long, but Kyo-san's counting on you while he's out of the area. Be sure you keep a close eye on the Tenth.'_

"Kusakabe, what the hell do you mean that– " The line goes dead, and Yamamoto curses as he snaps his cell shut. He isn't sure what draws his attention to the entrance of the room, but he looks up and sees Gokudera standing there, fists clenching at his sides.

He doesn't have to ask how much Gokudera heard. The Storm Guardian turns on his heels, but Yamamoto already is across the room, fist bunching in the sleeve of Gokudera's dress shirt. In that one glare, the one that dares Yamamoto to try and stop him – Yamamoto already knows what's going to happen next, and he knows even more intimately that he can't stop it. He sighs.

There are no smiles, just, "Get some rest first – I'll go with you."

"You can't stop me from going now," Gokudera snaps, "and I don't need your goddamned help."

It doesn't happen often, but Yamamoto feels his face falling into a serious expression, and he can't seem to stop it. "You're not going to turn this into a suicide mission – not on my watch, and not while the Tenth is still alive and breathing."

Gokudera's teeth are clenching as though he's going to spit out denials, but Yamamoto can see that he's seriously weighing it. The resistance drains out of him – this is when Yamamoto knows the decision has been made.

"Just don't get in my way," Gokudera mutters.

Yamamoto just smiles, though there's no joy behind it – there's never been joy in taking lives.

The smile fades as they wade into the thick of a battlefield, a day later – as promised – wrapped in Kevlar and the Sistema C.A.I. shields, loaded to the teeth with munitions and box weapons. The air fills with thick smoke from Gokudera's explosives and the punctuated staccato of bullets. It's two against an entire famiglia, but they have experience with both box weapons and gunfights on their side; they cut through the traitor famiglia's members, parting their defenses in a sea of red and black as they make their way to the top of the chain of command. Pressing forward, never stopping, never looking back; Gokudera takes the front line out with dynamite and blocks incoming attacks with his Sistema C.A.I., and the blade of Yamamoto's sword finds the stragglers.

Yamamoto worries when he catches a glimpse of Gokudera's face – it's almost terrifying, to see him so deadly-calm, to see the way he walks as a man with one goal, heedless of the danger around him. Of course they have a goal at the end, but Yamamoto isn't sure Gokudera has added "coming out alive" to the mission parameters, despite the presence of Gokudera's Sistema C.A.I. – it isn't bullet-proof, for one. He hopes they can finish up their work here quickly so that they can get out before Gokudera does something incredibly stupid in his anger.

They're ascending the staircase to the upper level of the Nori famiglia boss' local estate, and Gokudera simply pulls out a gun and shoots – once, twice, and two more enemy Mafioso are down – as he doesn't miss a step on his way down the hall. There's no stopping him at this point; all Yamamoto can do is to ensure that they both come out of here in one piece.

Gokudera shoots one of the oncoming attackers in the leg, and Yamamoto winces as he knows what's going to come next. Gokudera calmly grabs his new victim by the collar of his shirt, bringing the shrieking man so close that they're nearly face-to-face now.

"Where the fuck is your boss?" Gokudera hisses; Yamamoto can barely hear him over the roar of fire surrounding them. "I need to have a little… _chat_ with him."

The man's lips are trembling, but drawn into a tight, resolved line. "I-I'm not s-saying anything… t-to you Vongola _dogs_."

There's a flash of silver, the only warning before the small _bang_ of an equally small firearm goes off almost point-blank. Yamamoto cries out in alarm and reaches for Gokudera, only to realize that the man he's now holding is dead, and there is no sign of injury on the Storm Guardian. The neutral, _cold_, _fucking terrifying_ expression on Gokudera's face is all that's left.

Neither says a word; Yamamoto simply swallows around a hard lump in his throat, and follows Gokudera as he continues down the hall. A small ambush around the corner doesn't stop them, either – rapid fire from Gokudera's skull weapon takes them down even before Yamamoto even gets there. The Nori family should have known of Gokudera's growing reputation better; there aren't many that can stand in the way of Vongola's fearsome right-hand man and his notorious vengeful sense of justice.

Gokudera, in such a state, is nigh unstoppable.

An ornate door bars the end of this hallway, both guards already gunned down by Gokudera's vicious onslaught. Yamamoto can barely suppress a sigh of relief that they're _finally _almost at their goal. There are no more obstacles as they both march forward.

Gokudera kicks the door in without much preamble, and finds a sniveling man in a suit at an all-too-tidy desk. The man is quaking in his boots, but there's a glint in his eyes as he meets their glares that tells Yamamoto he's dangerously determined. The one thing that stands out to Yamamoto about the scene before them is that it's _off_, somehow. He isn't sure how; he just _knows_ that all isn't right here.

Gokudera clicks his tongue in annoyance. "You're not Nori's boss," he says, taking several steps closer to the man. "Where is he? I'd like to have a word with him."

The man shrieks as Gokudera takes another step in his direction. "S-Stay away!" There's a gun pointed in Gokudera's direction, but it's held in shaking hands, and Yamamoto doesn't think the man really can aim well. Regardless, he prepares himself just in case things go awry.

Gokudera ignores him, moves in, and kicks the gun away. He grabs this man by the collar, and points the skull's mouth at his head with a threatening _click-whirr-hum_ as the skull charges with his spirit energy. The man screams as Gokudera shoots a warning bolt through his thigh.

"I'm only going to ask you this one more time," he growls, his voice so cold that it sends chills down Yamamoto's spine. "Where is your fucking coward of a boss?"

"I-Italy! He's in Italy! For god's sake, spare me, please!" the man squeals, trembling and cowering with his hands over his head. "I'm just the adjunct!"

Gokudera snorts and rocks back on his heels, a look of dark amusement crossing his face. "And _you're_ their right-hand man," he mutters to himself, it seems. Yamamoto can see a thousand thoughts crossing Gokudera's mind, and he doesn't like a single one of them. "Jesus, how the fuck did you get to the Tenth, at your current strength?"

The words make Yamamoto flinch – Gokudera's back to blaming himself, and this mood he's in is completely dangerous. The warning sirens in the back of Yamamoto's mind are screaming at him to grab Gokudera and get the hell _out_, because Gokudera isn't in the right state of mind to figure out that something is awfully wrong here.

The man's frightened face suddenly shifts to something more deadly, and there's a smirk there on still slightly-trembling lips. There's a small bout of movement, and Gokudera realizes at the same time as Yamamoto that the gun wasn't this man's only weapon.

Several things happen all at once.

With widened eyes, Gokudera suddenly jumps toward Yamamoto in an effort to get them both out the door, in any way possible.

"Fuck you, Vongola!" the man shrieks.

There's a_ click_, a flash of bright light, a hot rush of air driving Gokudera's momentum so that he slams into Yamamoto, their eyes meeting in a brief moment of panic as flame bursts out from the room.

He loses Gokudera's grip once they clear the door – he reaches out again and misses, tossed back by an invisible force, and there's an ear-popping roar just before something solid connects with his head and it's lights out.

Yamamoto wakes to violent coughing overriding the ringing in his ears, and with the burning in his chest, he realizes that the coughing is his own. It takes him a few moments of disoriented, confused blinking before he understands what he's looking at through the cloud of dust. There's half-burnt wallpaper lining the walls, blackened and broken ceiling above. His head is throbbing in sharp contrast to his heartbeat, and it takes him another moment to remember.

_Enemy territory. Explosion. … Gokudera–!_

He sits up, almost too fast – his head still throbs like hell, but he'll live, and he doesn't think he's injured other than a handful of scrapes and bruises. Frantically looking around, Yamamoto locates several bodies strewn about the hallway, but only one of them has a mop of silver hair. In a panic, he rushes to his friend's side, and he could swear later that his heart stops when he notices that Gokudera isn't only unconscious, but he isn't moving. _At all_.

The panic almost overrides common sense, but Yamamoto has been through enough battles now to keep a calm head in a tough situation. Check ABC's, he recalls – airway, breathing, circulation. He's got his cell phone out as he places an ear to Gokudera's chest, and doesn't hear anything. Two fingers against Gokudera's neck, and there's nothing there. Yamamoto tries desperately not to lose that hard-won calm as he watches Gokudera's chest for any signs of breathing, and–

_No, no, nononono – this isn't happening!_

–Gokudera isn't. Yamamoto's blood runs cold.

He whips open his cell phone and dials for Vongola's emergency medical team, because they'll be the first to arrive in this situation anyway.

_Location._ _Injured parties. Not breathing, no heartbeat. Give CPR – yes, he knows how. Don't move the injured party. Bleeding? … Can't tell around the Kevlar. No, there's nobody else. Four minutes, got it._

He tries to listen and respond as well as he can, as his numbed fingers pull the front of Gokudera's dress shirt open, ignoring the buttons that hit his face as they pop off the fabric. There are several metal splotches on the Kevlar, wordless stories of things that could have been had Gokudera come alone. It's hard not to suck in a breath of sympathy at how many of them there are – those will bruise, badly; Yamamoto is surprised that Gokudera didn't even flinch, and then realizes that he shouldn't be. This is _Gokudera_ he's thinking about here.

Removal of the Kevlar is harder than he thought it would be without moving Gokudera too much. There are mottled bruises and bright red welts already forming on his friend's chest, and he's worried that he's only going to add to the injuries with CPR. But he doesn't have a choice; Gokudera still isn't breathing, and he doesn't know how long it's been since he's drawn a breath. Tilting Gokudera's chin upwards to open his airway, he leans in close just to make sure he isn't mistaken.

No breath tickles his ear.

Taking a deep breath of his own, he straddles Gokudera's hips and places his hands on Gokudera's sternum. Pressing down hard and fast – 15 times, 10 seconds; he counts them out aloud – he ignores the discomfort in his wrists. He leans over and pinches Gokudera's nose shut, and without hesitation, he presses his lips to Gokudera's and breathes two full breaths into his mouth. Gokudera's chest rises with each breath – _good._ Repeat.

The second round of chest compressions, he feels something give in Gokudera's chest and hears the faint _snap_, and he winces. Can't be helped; there's still no breathing or heartbeat.

The eighth time he breathes for Gokudera, Yamamoto realizes that the Italian's lips are soft, warm – not that he should be noticing these things, but it does come to mind. There's a lot of muscle in Gokudera's chest, too; he didn't realize just how much there was until he found himself trying to press life back into Gokudera's heart through the layers of muscle. His shoulders are starting to ache from the exertion.

_Come on, Gokudera – don't give up on me!_

He loses count after twenty-three. Gokudera still isn't responding, and he feels a growing knot of panic in the pit of his stomach that he's been trying to ignore. Instead, he forces himself to focus on anything but the fact that his friend still isn't breathing – the way Gokudera's hair spreads out behind his head like a halo, how peaceful Gokudera looks, how soft his lips are and how warm they might be if Gokudera was awake–

His mind stops there. He can't let himself lose focus that way; it's just inappropriate, the timing is all wrong, and it's not like he even has feelings like that–

_You're a dirty liar_, a vindictive voice says in the back of his mind, but he ignores it.

There are bruises across Gokudera's abdomen, Yamamoto finally notices. They look ugly and serious, and it sends another jolt of fear through Yamamoto's gut. But he's too afraid that if he stops giving CPR now, Gokudera's life will be in even more danger, so he doesn't check the time to see how long it's been since he's called emergency services. Damn it, hasn't it been at least four minutes? He's starting to feel tired, his arms and wrists and shoulders and back aching with the strain. It seems like a goddamn lifetime.

"Don't you dare… give up on me… Gokudera Hayato!" he snarls, panting, a pause between each chest compression. "I won't… let you!"

In the middle of a second breath, Gokudera suddenly begins heaving; Yamamoto immediately pulls away and rolls Gokudera on his side, rubbing his friend's back carefully as he vomits. He notices between pained heaves that Gokudera is _breathing, thank God, thankgodthankyouthankyou_, but isn't yet conscious–

The vomit is tinged pink. Gokudera is far from out of danger yet. Yamamoto puts his fingers to Gokudera's throat to check for a pulse, and finds it – thready, weak, too fast, but finally _there_. Once Gokudera's done heaving, he pulls off his jacket and wipes Gokudera's mouth with the sleeve of it as he rolls his friend on his back again. Gokudera still breathes, but irregularly with some difficulty. This time, Yamamoto begins taking stock of the injuries – aside from the heavy bruising all over Gokudera's chest and abdomen, there's a nasty slash across Gokudera's hip that Yamamoto hadn't noticed before. Blood from the wound has already soaked through the knee of Yamamoto's pants. Hissing in frustration, he tears the sleeve off his jacket – Gokudera will be pissed; these weren't cheap suits – and folds it up, pressing it against the tear in Gokudera's pants above the wound.

He puts the back of one hand on the side of Gokudera's face, and the skin is cold to the touch. Another frustrated hiss, and he strips his jacket off and drapes it over the still-unconscious Italian. Gokudera moans softly, face contorting in a wince – Yamamoto tries hard not to sigh in relief at the sign of responsiveness, because there's no way he can be relieved when Gokudera's injuries could be even worse than he's imagining them to be.

_Goddamn it, where is that emergency team?_

He picks up his phone to call them back again when he hears shouts from a short distance away. Grabbing for the gun he has stashed in his belt, he readies it just in case this isn't the emergency team he's hearing right now.

There's a rumbling overhead, and a little more debris comes tumbling from the ceiling in small puffs of dust clouds. A sick feeling curdles in Yamamoto's gut; he worries that the structure itself might not be sound, but he's afraid to move Gokudera at this point. Another shudder, more dust, and Yamamoto calls out loudly for help. A larger chunk of debris rains down on the ground near them, and Yamamoto knows that neither one of them will get out alive if he doesn't get them both the _hell_ out of here _now_.

"Yamamoto!! I was worried about you guys to the extreme!!"

Leading the medical team is Ryohei, _thank God_, and Yamamoto finally allows himself some measure of relief. Another rumble from above, though, has him concerned that they don't have time. Medics swarm around Yamamoto and Gokudera, pushing Yamamoto aside as they begin to work on his friend. Several questions are directed in Yamamoto's direction, and he answers them numbly. _Breathing restarted by CPR. Still unresponsive. Vomit – pink. Don't know how long he was unconscious before starting CPR._ He doesn't like the looks on the medics' faces as they assess Gokudera's condition. The words they're saying are doing nothing for the relief he feels that Gokudera is at least breathing; it's making his stomach tie in worried knots, and he's starting to feel vaguely ill.

_My power wasn't enough, was it._

Another shudder goes through the building, and several workers glance up with concern.

"I don't think the building's going to hold," Yamamoto half-heartedly comments, finding breath harder to come by than it should be. He may be athletic, but even he is winded after forcing Gokudera's body to keep working. "We need to get out of here."

They're loading Gokudera onto a stretcher as he says it, and it looks like they're all about ready to get the hell out of there. Ryohei, for once, doesn't say a word as he pulls Yamamoto to his feet and they follow the medics on the way out. Five steps out of the building, and it begins to fall to pieces behind them – Ryohei has to drag Yamamoto to keep him from getting hit by nearby debris.

After that, the ambulance ride is a blur. Yamamoto chooses not to listen as the medics talk about Gokudera's injuries – _too calm, too clinical and cold _– because it's just easier to let himself drift. One of the medics finally squats down in front of him with a worried frown, and he realizes then that he's got blood dribbling down his face from an injury in his scalp. He lets the medic tend to it without a word.

An emergency blanket drifts across his shoulders, followed by a thick, broad hand – Ryohei, again, this time looking concerned.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Fine," Yamamoto replies flatly.

"You're not the type to brood."

Yamamoto snorts; he's definitely _not brooding_.

… _Liar._

"And you're not the type to be so subdued," Yamamoto returns.

Ryohei smiles mirthlessly, because this isn't a time to get fired up – Gokudera's life is still in danger, and it's making them both feel morose and frustrated, because there's nothing either one of them can do about it. And that's what makes Yamamoto so _angry _– he could have stopped Gokudera from going (_no, no you couldn't have_), he could have taken more precautions (_you got him to wear the Kevlar, at the very least_), he could have made sure he'd taken the brunt of the blast instead of Gokudera (_but then their positions would just be reversed, and Gokudera doesn't need more reason to feel guilt right now_), he could have killed that goddamned Nori bastard before he had a chance to detonate the explosives he'd wired the room with (_how the fuck could he have foreseen that?_), he could have–

"You're thinking extremely hard," Ryohei comments dryly. "That's not good for your brain, you know."

Yamamoto pulls the emergency blanket tighter around himself – that's exactly what Gokudera had said, back in Tsuna's hospital room. The words make him feel even more ill, and he glances past Ryohei over at Gokudera's face, which is now half-covered with a breathing mask. A medic has one of Gokudera's arms stretched out to the side, and is coating his upper ribs with iodine. They're going to run a chest tube, Yamamoto realizes.

His eyes are stinging, but damn it, _not going to cry_.

"It's okay," Ryohei says, almost gently. "It's going to be okay."

Yamamoto wants to badly to believe him, but can't seem to let himself relax. The medic examining his forehead gives him a pitying glance, before offering him a round of painkillers for the headache. Yamamoto takes them, without another word. Several minutes pass, and Yamamoto suddenly feels extremely woozy.

The last thought before he succumbs to the pleasant haze of drug-induced half-consciousness is, _goddamn you, Ryohei – you let them sedate me._

* * *

Yamamoto wakes to a sterile white room, a fierce headache, and the sound of hushed, whispering voices. He's curled on his side and it registers belatedly that he's staring at a dividing curtain. If he looks closely enough, he can barely make out the shadows of a bed and the person in it, and a couple other figures standing over it. The crook of his elbow itches slightly, and he looks down to find the end of an IV line stuck into his skin there.

It takes several moments for him to process why he would be in the hospital. Tsuna was the one injured, right? But then he remembers the surprise, anger, betrayal, and the subsequent quest for vengeance on which he followed Gokudera. Gun-fighting. Box weapons, explosions, a headache, Gokudera not breathing, _not breathing– _

_Gokudera-kun?_, spoken in an urgent whisper on the other side of the curtain, breaks through his thoughts like a slap across his face. He strains his ears, trying to listen to what's being said, because _damn it, this is important_.

_Not doing well, he – _Yamamoto can't hear all of the softly-spoken words –_ blood… out of surgery, will… still in ICU? … anything… be done?_

Then he realized he recognized the voice asking the questions – _Tsuna._ He was in the same room now, but why was he in a hospital bed himself? Almost as if in reminder, his head throbbed, and he vaguely recalled that he'd taken a blow to the head as well. Maybe he'd suffered a mild concussion, or they're just trying to make him sleep more.

Yanking the IV line out of his elbow – which, as an afterthought, probably isn't the best idea because it stings to hell – Yamamoto stands up and throws the curtain aside to see Tsuna propped up in bed, looking much better (_except for the worry lines_) and Ryohei speaking with him.

"Yamamoto!" Tsuna exclaims, surprise and worry and a hint of relief crossing his features all at once. "You're awake!"

"Which room is Gokudera in?" he demands, proud that he's kept his usual even tone.

Ryohei and Tsuna exchange worried looks. "He's… he's in surgery," Tsuna hesitantly says, looking down at his hands.

Yamamoto knows immediately, as soon as the words are out of Tsuna's mouth, and as soon as his lips clamp down again in a thin, grim line. There's something that Tsuna isn't telling him. It isn't good. He's afraid to ask, afraid of what the answer will be, but if he doesn't find out…

"Will… will he be okay?" Yamamoto asks, almost numbly.

Tsuna bites his lip, shifts uncomfortably and looks at Ryohei. That isn't good news, either; there's a painful clench of fear in Yamamoto's chest, tightening like a band around his ribs and making it hard to breathe. Why won't they tell him what's wrong?

"Since when can't you tell _me_ the truth?" Yamamoto asks, voice thick.

"Because it's _Gokudera_," Ryohei says, uncharacteristically quiet and serious.

"Huh?" Yamamoto blinks. "And what's that supposed to mean?" But he already knows the answer to his own question; he just doesn't want to admit it. _Because he is a very precious person to you, and everyone knows it._

Tsuna gives him a disparaging look, and Yamamoto's anger calms. It's not their fault that Gokudera's hurt and _in surgery and not doing well and– and… Oh, God. _This is all _his_ fault, he thinks, because _he_ letGokudera go on his little rampage, _he_ letGokudera get himself in a stupid pinch, and lethim be a rash idiot even with the Kevlar and the extra rest and the company. Yamamoto was nothing more than an enabler; look at where it landed Gokudera. The lump rising in his throat feels like it's going to choke him any moment, just watch and he might let it.

He sits unceremoniously in the empty chair next to Tsuna's hospital bed with a shuddering sigh, elbows on knees and hands folded as he buries his eyes into them.

"I'm such an idiot," he whispers, a ghost of a laugh on his lips with it. "I _let _him do this to himself."

A soft, warm hand lands on his, and he looks up to see Tsuna staring back at him with a sad smile. There's a hint of guilt in the expression, which Yamamoto chooses to ignore. This is in no way Tsuna's fault; the Tenth has to rely on the strength of his Guardians, and as far as Yamamoto's concerned, two of them have already failed him recently.

"This isn't your fault, Yamamoto," Tsuna says as if he's reading Yamamoto's mind, but Yamamoto doesn't believe him. "This is something that happens because we're Mafioso."

Yamamoto takes a deep breath in a near-vain attempt to reel in his emotions, nods for Tsuna's sake, and then looks up at him seriously.

"How bad is it, Tsuna? Really?" he asks.

Tsuna's smile falters and wavers. "It's not good," he replies carefully, "but not hopeless. There's a good chance he'll be just fine once he's stabilized. This is actually his second surgery this afternoon. The doctor said there was a lot of internal bleeding…"

_Goddamn it, that isn't his fault, is it? Did he do CPR wrong and make it worse?_

"… He'll need a transfusion, most likely, but they're a little short on B-type blood and Ryohei and I are both A-type." As soon as Yamamoto hears this, he shoots Tsuna a sharp look. Tsuna doesn't seem to notice at first, and keeps talking. "Once they've got his vitals under control, the doctor says that he should recover well, though he'll be very sore for a while. He's got a lot of broken ribs and internal contusions, but–… Yamamoto?"

Yamamoto doesn't realize he's no longer paying attention until Tsuna says his name. "I can help," he says, standing up, and there's a little glimmer of shaky hope that manages to leak into his voice. "I-I have O-type blood; it should be compatible with his."

"Yamamoto…"

"It's the least I can do for my own failure," Yamamoto insists, fist clenching.

Tsuna looks him seriously, straight and evenly – it's almost intimidating, especially since Yamamoto knows Tsuna's true strength. But he has nothing to hide, and so he returns the stare, as evenly and determinedly as he can manage. There must be something in his eyes that Tsuna sees, because there's a split second of surprise, and then a relieved smile spreading across Tsuna's face.

"I guess it can't be helped, can it?" he says gently. "We'll summon the nurse."

--

Secretly, Yamamoto wishes he had been able to see Gokudera during the blood-drawing procedure. He wants confirmation that Gokudera is still alive, still breathing, and that he'll make it. But he's still in surgery; the donated blood goes straight to the OR, out of Yamamoto's grasp, and directly into Gokudera's veins. Yamamoto is left sitting in the surgery waiting room feeling weary, stretched thin, but hopeful.

Another two hours, after Tsuna convinces a nurse to let him at least sit in a wheelchair in the waiting room with Yamamoto, the surgeon finally comes out of the OR and approaches the Vongola. His scrubs are gruesomely spattered, and he looks exhausted – but triumphant.

Gokudera's resting in the recovery room; he's out of immediate danger, but they will need to be cautious and monitor him for a few days before they can move him out of the ICU, the doctor explains seriously. They won't know if there's any lasting brain damage from the period of time where he wasn't breathing. The doctor doesn't say – doesn't _need_ to say how close of a call it was. He doesn't need to explain that Gokudera was one lucky son of a bitch. Yamamoto had overheard one of the medics say it: she had never seen _anyone_'s heart start beating again from CPR alone.

Gokudera is fucking _indestructible._ Or, so Yamamoto tries to tell himself. The idiot has already survived this far, beat his odds a thousand times over. But Doubt is still a strong little devil in his chest.

They don't let him visit Gokudera until he's stabilized and in the ICU. There are tubes and wires everywhere; Yamamoto recognizes a chest drain and the ventilator. The heart monitor gives signs of a steady beat, and it somehow relaxes Yamamoto as he takes vigil next to Gokudera's bed. Tsuna visits, when he can convince the nurse on duty to wheel him to the ICU, but Tsuna's still recovering, himself.

Pleasantries are exchanged, but Yamamoto can tell Tsuna isn't pleased by the way the boss' lips are pursed in a thin line – angry about _what_, Yamamoto isn't sure. The truth is, he doesn't feel like talking about it, about why Tsuna might be angry (at him, Gokudera, both, the situation, whatever); Tsuna has enough insight to figure that much out. For a while, at least.

"Yamamoto, this isn't your fault," Tsuna says quietly; Yamamoto feels Tsuna's eyes on him, but doesn't return the gaze.

"I know," he whispers, but doesn't believe it.

Tsuna doesn't call him out on it.

After a few hours of quiet vigilance, Tsuna's nurse returns to take him back to his room. Yamamoto loses track of time after that as he sits and simply watches Gokudera's chest rise and fall in time with the pressurized hisses of the ventilator. Nurses are in and out, as well as the doctor – but none of them question the right of the Rain Guardian to stay in his seat, keeping his silent vigil with the occasional reach across to brush errant silver hairs out of Gokudera's face. Day blurs into night, and back into day – the only sign of time's passage outside that very room is the direction the sun's rays filter into the sterile white room. He doesn't realize how long he's been sitting there until Tsuna comes back in and remarks on his state of appearance.

"Yamamoto… weren't you wearing that same outfit yesterday?" Tsuna asks, hesitantly.

Yamamoto blinks in surprise; has it really been that long? Rubbing a hand behind his head, he smiles sheepishly and says, "Ah, I must have lost track of time."

Tsuna watches him with worry, but says nothing.

The doctors wean Gokudera off the ventilator that afternoon, and are optimistic when he's breathing well on his own. Yamamoto stays until Gokudera finally stirs the morning after, eyes clouded with pain and the haze of drugs. Looking around the room, slow realization setting in – frustration, weariness, pain, all flickering across his face.

"Hey," Yamamoto says with a smile – genuine, relieved, pleased – when he realizes that Gokudera is lucid and aware.

Gokudera's eyes lazily shift towards Yamamoto, and he grunts softly. "Still… alive, baseball… freak?" he says, voice hoarse and slurred.

The smile still hasn't left Yamamoto's face. "Yeah," he replies. "Sorry, can't get rid of me just yet."

Gokudera gives a half-laugh, half-snort with a smile that quickly turns into a grimace as he tries to curl in on himself. "F-Fucking… _ow_."

Yamamoto tries not to hover too much as Gokudera reigns in the pain, breathing harshly a few times before he shoots a sharp glare at Yamamoto. Like it's Yamamoto's fault.

_And maybe it is._

"You… look like shit," Gokudera says suddenly.

It takes all of five seconds for Yamamoto to realize that Gokudera isn't glaring at him for being there, but for how haggard he's sure he looks. He brings out the sheepish smile again, rubbing the back of his head almost absently.

"Do I?" he asks with a laugh – hollow.

"You idiot," Gokudera says, closing his eyes. "I don't… need a fucking babysitter. Go… get some goddamned… sleep."

It is clear that Gokudera's having trouble staying awake, so Yamamoto smiles and nods, waiting for him to finally drift off. When he does, Yamamoto allows himself a deep breath of relief and a small smile. Something stings his eyes, but he refuses to acknowledge it. There are far too many thoughts swarming in his mind, of what could have been, what still might be, what he would have done had things turned out much differently. What if he had been the one to be in the hospital bed instead? What if Gokudera had died – there or at the hospital? What if they had never received that call from Kusakabe regarding the Nori family? He didn't think he cared that much, but now… _now…_

They've been through far too much together, he realizes. Far too many trials, challenges, and they've survived every last test thrown in their faces. This is a whole different kind of game they're playing now, and the stakes are far higher than Yamamoto would ever like to admit they are.

He takes a hold of Gokudera's hand, tensing slightly when Gokudera shifts but doesn't wake, and presses it to his forehead.

"Thank you," he whispers. "Thank you for surviving."

--

"_The _fuck_ do you mean I can't check myself out?!"_

The shout comes from down the hallway, and it makes Yamamoto blink – though he knows he shouldn't be surprised. Gokudera has been threatening to walk on out of the hospital for days now, but has never quite managed to make it further than down the hall before he passes out.

A calm, but firm feminine voice answers him, but Yamamoto can't hear the words being said from where he stands. He resists the urge to sigh and rub his forehead, and instead goes to rescue the poor nurse who's being subjected to Gokudera's regular arguments with the Vongola-run hospital's authorities.

"What the hell ever happened to patient autonomy?" Gokudera growls. "You can't stop me from yanking out this god-forsaken IV and walking out this door right now!"

Yamamoto arrives just as Gokudera half-storms, half-limps towards the door, the nurse behind him sputtering and trying to figure out how to convince her stubborn patient to _stay in bed_. And a second look at Gokudera confirmed the nurse's fears in Yamamoto's mind – though the Storm Guardian had markedly improved over the last several days, he still looked haggard and in pain, and Yamamoto didn't miss how harsh his breathing was at the small exertion.

In that split second, Yamamoto made a quick decision, and braced for the argument he knew was about to break out. He took a step sideways, maneuvering so that his broad shoulders take up most of the space in the doorway. Gokudera doesn't even notice him until he's only steps away, and when he does, the scowl that scrunches up his face looks more like a tight grimace of pain. It makes Yamamoto feel even more firm in his resolve.

"Get out of my way, baseball freak," Gokudera says venomously, shoving against Yamamoto feebly once he's close enough to do so.

Yamamoto says nothing, but doesn't budge, keeping his expression cold and firm. Can't let it slip, even though he _hates_ how little strength Gokudera has in the gesture. There's an irritated grunt coming from Gokudera as he shoves again, and then follows the furious glare – the one that says, _my pride is at stake here, you bastard_. It's hard not to budge and just let him go his way, but Yamamoto knows – goddamn it, he _knows_ that Gokudera could use another few days in the hospital.

Keeping his voice even – barely – he says, "If you don't have the strength to push me out of your way, you don't have the strength to be out of bed."

There's a few beats in which Yamamoto isn't entirely sure that Gokudera won't try to cause him some serious harm, but a small wobble and a grimace of pain is all the warning Yamamoto has before Gokudera's knees buckle out from under him. Yamamoto's eyes widen, and he reaches to catch him without thinking; he barely manages to stop Gokudera from falling face-first onto the hard tile floor of the hospital room. There's a tension in Gokudera's shoulders that isn't entirely from pain, and he scowls as he tries to push Yamamoto away.

"Let go, damn it," he snarls.

"Not until you can stand on your own," Yamamoto replies evenly, almost angrily. There must be enough anger bleeding into his voice, because Gokudera doesn't say another word.

He ignores Gokudera's frustrated hisses as he pulls them both upright, one of Gokudera's arms over his shoulder. He's mindful of Gokudera's broken ribs as he leads back over to the hospital bed. The nurse shoots him a relieved glance and nods over Gokudera's head. By the time they maneuver Gokudera back on to the bed, he's breathing harshly and there's sweat beading on his forehead, eyes tightly shut as he tries to ride out the pain.

Part of Yamamoto wants to reach out and hold his hand, try to offer moral support through it, but he's so irritated at Gokudera's stubborn insistence on getting himself in bigger trouble that he can't seem to let himself offer a hand. It's _now_ that Yamamoto truly feels anger, because this is just so asinine on Gokudera's part that he wants to shake the man.

"Why the _fuck_ do you insist on being this way?" he snaps. Gokudera's eyes crack open, and he manages to look surprised, even around the pain. "If you would just stay put, you wouldn't have to put up with this much pain, and you'd heal a hell of a lot faster."

"B-But the Tenth needs–"

"_Bullshit_." Yamamoto leans in closer. "You are no good to him in your current condition – how the hell do you expect to protect him if you can barely move on your own?"

A number of emotions flicker across Gokudera's face – anger, frustration, and then he suddenly seems absolutely miserable.

"I'm not useless," Gokudera whispers, and it sends a shock of guilt through Yamamoto's gut that immediately quells the ire.

"No," Yamamoto says with a sigh that relaxes his shoulders. "No, you're not useless. Just temporarily out of commission."

The comment does seem to help – Gokudera looks a little less upset, but only a little. Yamamoto slumps in the chair next to the bed, suddenly feeling bone-deep _weary_. He stares up at the ceiling in silence, simply listening to Gokudera's breathing beginning to even out, and to the nurse as she bustles about re-attaching IVs and machine sensors and tucking her patient back into bed, tongue clicking every so often in disapproval. She leaves once she's satisfied, and then it's truly quiet in the room.

"Why are you still here?" Gokudera asks suddenly, breaking the silence. "The Tenth is still here, isn't he? Why aren't you with him?"

"Ryohei's still with Tsuna," he replies, "and Tsuna checked out of the hospital yesterday, and is resting back in his quarters at the other end of the base. It's not like he's in serious danger at the moment – this entire facility is Vongola-run and owned, remember."

"That's not what I meant."

Yamamoto's eyes drift away from the ceiling to blink at Gokudera, who isn't looking back at him. Sitting up, he puts his elbows on his knees and folds his hands together in front of him. Why _is _he still here?

After a few beats, he finally says, "I guess… I just needed to make sure you were really okay."

There's a derisive snort, and then, "You fucking sap – it's not like I'm gonna die."

This time, it's Yamamoto's turn to snort, but his is much softer and less abrasive. "I suppose not," he says, "but that's only recent news." The last part is a little quieter, and he hadn't actually meant to say that out loud.

Too late now – Gokudera's eyes flip back over in his direction, and he looks a little… confused. Perhaps he's taken the doctor's words with a grain of salt, like it's the doctor's job to be overly cautious. But now he's taking in this new information, and it isn't matching the image of what happened in his mind. Gokudera finally comes to a conclusion – that much is clear, just watching him.

"What aren't you telling me?" he concedes.

Yamamoto takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly to a count – like in meditation – and then thinks, _What will telling him change? Anything?_ But he's afraid it might change much more.

"You… you almost didn't make it," Yamamoto says solemnly, looking away. "You were in surgery for _hours_, and they were having trouble stabilizing your vitals. The internal bleeding was bad enough for you to need a blood transfusion." He carefully left out the part that he'd been the one to donate.

Gokudera narrows his eyes; apparently he knows as much, but that clearly doesn't matter. "But I'm fine now, so why the fuss?" he asks, suspiciously.

This is the part Yamamoto doesn't want to talk about, really – because he knows the direct answer to that question, and it's something he isn't comfortable sharing. "When I woke up, after that bastard tried to blow us up, you weren't… you weren't breathing, and your heart–"

This brings to mind images he'd rather forget, of waking up to finding Gokudera not moving, not breathing, and the stark fear that shot through him then threatens to strike again now. He takes a deep breath – again, slowly exhaling to focus – before he makes a decision. He really doesn't want to talk about that.

"I don't know if you understand what it's like, having your friend dying and you feel like you can't do _enough _to stop it from happening," he finally says.

One of Gokudera's eyebrows raises in a confused arch. "But the medics got there in time, right?"

"…They almost didn't."

_That_ makes Gokudera think a little more, and as he realizes exactly what Yamamoto is trying to say without actually _saying_ it – that he'd done CPR, the whole _press your lips against his and breathe for him_ ordeal and everything – he looks… like he wants to be angry. He's fighting it, though – that's one thing that did change about Gokudera over the years. Less of the _shoot first, ask questions later_ mindset, and more of the _wait, let's talk this through_ finding its way slowly into his social methodology. It's a good change, but now Yamamoto feels almost embarrassed. The silence between them now feels so awkward, it's suffocating and painful.

"_Oh_," Gokudera finally says, looking away. Yamamoto thinks it might be a trick of his eyes, but he's pretty sure Gokudera's ears are turning red.

The awkward silence returns, and Yamamoto waits for Gokudera to explode in his face over it. The longer that neither of them speak, though, the more worried Yamamoto becomes. It isn't like Gokudera to be so complacently silent, to take the news of something that might be considered a breach of pride for the self-declared Right Hand Man so easily. But it also gives Yamamoto a small glimmer of hope – of what, he isn't sure, but it's a warm sensation that he doesn't want to let go of.

Gokudera's soft snort breaks the silence. "You didn't have to do that," he says, softly.

"And you don't have to keep punishing yourself over something that hasn't happened yet," Yamamoto replies, just as softly. Gokudera grimaces, and Yamamoto knows he struck a chord. "Tsuna still needs a Right Hand Man."

With a half-hearted scowl, Gokudera says, "Damn straight – can't let my competition beat me out."

Yamamoto doesn't miss the fact that he's being teased, and he laughs. "Haha, well, you'd better rest up so you can take that position back from me."

Another snort, "_Idiot_," and there's the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of Gokudera's lips. It's a sign of a slow return to normalcy, a reminder that Gokudera is still very much alive and will be just fine. And it's a hint that maybe – just _maybe _– there's the acknowledgement of something more between them than there was before. Yamamoto finally lets his shoulders relax.

Gokudera's having trouble keeping his eyes open; the dose of painkillers he's still on is significant, and Yamamoto takes this as his cue to leave.

"Don't try to check yourself out again, at least not until the doctor says it's okay," Yamamoto says softly, brushing his fingertips against Gokudera's hand.

Gokudera's eyes flutter open again briefly, and he grunts. "Or you'll… what?" he mumbles.

"Or I'll have to come babysit you some more," Yamamoto replies with a smile. "At least, wait until I get back before you try anything monstrously stupid again."

"Fucking… mother hen."

Yamamoto laughs again, and lightly punches Gokudera's shoulder. "Then do something about it."

Gokudera's already asleep, but there's a slight smile on his face that tells Yamamoto it'll be okay. _It really will be okay._

He smiles as he leaves the room, feeling the most hope he's felt in a while.

* * *

It's another six months before the head of the Nori family faces justice, and this time, it's Tsuna calling the shots. There's one, two – _five _total attempts to negotiate, five times Tsuna tried desperately to repair the relationship between the families. Yamamoto wonders if what he and Gokudera did – their raid – affected the talks, but Tsuna assures him that it makes no difference now.

The last assassination attempt on Tsuna ends when the tenth boss of the Vongola shows what he is truly capable of. That confrontation doesn't take more than a minute, and it happens before any of the Guardians can react. It's all Tsuna, and this time, Nori's leader doesn't come out alive.

_It's strange, how much people can change in such a short time_, Yamamoto muses later that night – after it's all said and done, and they're back at the base, safe and sound. He leans over the railing on the porch outside the above-ground meeting room, looking down over Namimori's grounds and taking deep breaths of fresh air.

He notices Gokudera's presence only when he catches the scent of cigarette smoke on the air.

"Hey!" he says, standing up straight and smiling. It's a tight, but genuine grin, and he knows it.

"Didn't I tell you that thinking doesn't suit you?" comes the gruff response.

Yamamoto snorts as he turns around and rests his elbows on the ledge of the balcony, leaning back. "Haha, I guess you did."

"What's done is done – can't change it."

The smile falters, and then fades entirely. Yamamoto sighs. "I can't be the only one wondering if it's our fault," he says, quietly.

Gokudera's next to him now, leaning over the balcony in a gruffer mimicry of Yamamoto's earlier position. He takes a long drag on the cigarette, lets it out slowly in a gentle stream through his lips. "You heard what the Tenth said; didn't matter what we did, they'd been gunnin' for us a long time."

"We didn't help."

"But we didn't exacerbate the issue," Gokudera corrects. It's his turn to sigh – irritably, and he takes another drag on the cigarette, this one harsher and more agitated. Smoke curls around his face as he talks, "Look, I mean it – this isn't worth dwelling on anymore."

Maybe it isn't, but that doesn't stop Yamamoto from saying, "What if there are others out there like the Nori? How do we know we're even in the right here?"

There's a bark of mirthless laughter, and, "Fuck, this is getting too philosophical for you, isn't it." Yamamoto sees the sharp glance suddenly directed up at him out of the corner of his vision. "I thought you'd already figured out this wasn't a game. _This_ is the mafia, idiot. Whether you want to be a part of it or not, you're smack in the middle of it. We all are – and this is what it's going to take to survive."

In a few moments of quiet, Yamamoto lets those words hang on the air, absorbing them as he looks up at the star-dotted sky. It makes him think of Tsuna, and the somber nature their young boss has developed of late. Gokudera takes another drag, the glow from the end of the cigarette glowing in his peripheral vision. _Is the killing, death – is all this worth it?_

And in that one sideways glance Gokudera gives him, the way the cigarette dangles from his lips – warm, alive, like the rest of the man – he thinks, _Yes. Yes, it is._

_Because there are still many things left worth protecting_.

A burden feels like it's lifted from his shoulders, and the smile this time is liberating, free of tension, and wholly genuine. The _thank you_ is unspoken, but that's how it always is between them. Implied, but never said. He slides his eyes sideways, catches Gokudera's gaze as he flicks ashes from the butt over the edge of the balcony.

"Are you sure you should be smoking that?" he suddenly blurts.

"… Fucking _idiot. _Mind your own damn business."

But he's smiling, too – and this, _this _is what's worth protecting.

* * *

_end track._

_

* * *

  
_

Sorry to all my non-KHR readers – this has been a bit of a craze for me lately! I am at least thinking about my other fics at the moment, though lately when I have time to write, the KHR plot bunnies bite the hardest. I'm sorry for the delay on everything else!

As for the rest of you readers, thank you for reading this far! Feedback, as always, is a lovely little present to the author. 8)

Until track 04!


	4. 04: Petit Four: GEN

_Disclaimer: Katekyo Hitman Reborn! and all affiliated characters and settings are the creative property of Akira Amano, Shueisha, Weekly Shounen Jump, and any other companies holding the title to its license and distribution (VIZ Media, etc.). Used without permission for non-profitable entertainment purposes._

_**Warnings: **__Language (Gokudera, HI), and uh… not-so-happy ending?_

Oh look, a gen fic! 8) A really short one, geez.

_

* * *

  
_

_The road to Hell is paved with good intentions  
__But if I die tonight, at least I can say I did what I wanted to do  
Tell me, how about you?_  
(from _4 Minutes_ by Madonna)

* * *

**Track 04 – Petit Four**_  
theme song: 4 Minutes – Madonna, feat. Justin Timberlake and Timbaland_

The clock is _tick-tick-_ticking, each second coming a breath sooner than the last as the commodity of time speeds up and becomes a luxury too expensive to pull in the reins on. It's like a rock rolling downhill, picking up momentum as gravity's pull fuels its acceleration, the same way it pulls on the sweat beads forming across Gokudera's forehead and pulls them into his eyes while he's trying to pay attention to what he's doing.

The red numbers are dropping, dropping under the weight of gravity and Gokudera's sweat and fumbling fingers that are coated in axel grease–

He takes a deep breath, and tries hard not to think too hard about how each second he hesitates, the red-lettered seconds move down. Far more often, he assembles and detonates his own bombs – taking them apart and making them _not _explode; this is a new realm entirely. Especially since this is someone else's modification on one of his personal models.

He's not sure if it's some sick kind of flattery, or a blatant message to him personally. But this is also a blatant attack against the Vongola – it's in the half-demolished estate in Osaka, and Gokudera hasn't had time to think – doesn't want to think – about what might have happened to the Tenth in the first round of explosions.

Another deep breath, and it takes too long to get his giddy thought train back on the task on hand. _Four minutes left_. His world is narrowing down to a set of wires and switches and detonators. When one fails, there is at least one failsafe, if not more, to ensure the device does its job. He's got to find them all, or–

_No. Not the Tenth's time to die._ And he keeps working.

Three minutes, thirty seconds.

His hand slips, he loses a breath and two, three heartbeats before he realizes the bomb didn't explode in his face.

Two minutes, forty-five seconds.

He cuts his finger on a wire, and now his blood is mixing with the sweat and grease on his hands. Is he even getting anywhere?

Two minutes.

Its wiry innards are spilling out of its slit metal belly and the red numbers are still going _down down down tick tick tick_, like it committed seppuku and somehow managed to survive. And it's then that Gokudera wonders what it's like to die.

_And who's going to protect the Tenth when you're gone? _– except, he already knows the answer to this because it's also on his mind. He doesn't deserve the consideration, except now all his reasons for stopping this _fucking piece of shit_ are selfish.

Every. Last. One.

One minute, ten seconds.

His heart is pounding in his ears, and at this point, he's swearing to all the gods he knows – Japanese, Roman, it doesn't matter which ones – that he's never going to build another goddamn explosive ever again, so long as he gets out alive.

Forty-five seconds, and he's berating himself for sounding so weak.

This is a man's job, and he's going to do it like a man, or fail like a man.

… He won't admit that those are tear tracks in the grime and blood on his hands – it's just more sweat.

Five seconds. _Tick – _four. He smiles. _I'm sorry. _Three, two, one –

_Click._

_

* * *

  
_

_end track._

* * *

This was a speedfic, in that I wrote it out as soon as I thought of it. Took about forty-five minutes total, give or take, so my apologies for any typos and grammatical boo boos I likely missed. Four down, twenty-six more to go! Ahaha. Dx


	5. 05: Carving Cornetti: 8059

_Disclaimer: __Katekyo Hitman Reborn! and all affiliated characters and settings are the creative property of Akira Amano, Shueisha, Weekly Shounen Jump, and any other companies holding the title to its license and distribution (VIZ Media, etc.). Used without permission for non-profitable entertainment purposes._

_**Warnings: **__Big one for language, some violence, SLASH. Yes, you read that correctly._

And we're back to more YamaGoku fic, haha. This particular installment also doubles as part of a long-overdue exchange with nuakiire from LJ (a.k.a. irenukia at deviantART), who drew me something amazing a while ago. She asked for 8059 in a not-quite-TYL timeline, involving denial, jealousy, and angst. Err, and this is what happened. 8);

* * *

_It's time to forget about the past  
To wash away what happened last  
Hide behind an empty face  
Don't ask too much, just say  
'Cause this is just a game_  
--from 30 Seconds to Mars' _A Beautiful Lie_

**

* * *

  
**

**Track 05 – Carving Cornetti**_  
theme song: A Beautiful Lie – 30 Seconds to Mars_

The day the world goes to hell in a handbasket starts out beautiful and crisp, with the cherry blossoms and the promise of spring on the air, like the gods have a sick sense of humor and are conspiring to make Gokudera hate Japan even more than he already thinks he might at this very moment. He doesn't want to admit it – especially not to the Tenth, oh gods never – but he kind of misses Italy. It's been eight years now, and he's used to Japan and everything about it, but…

For one, if he has to eat another bite of sushi, he's going to stab a certain someone with his chopsticks. And if he gets dragged to _just_ _one more_ mediocre Italian restaurant when he complains about it, he's going to replace the chopsticks with a fork. A very sharp one.

He's sick of the crowded train commute when he can't get a hold of his driver. Sometimes he wonders if Japanese men don't know how to wear deodorant. And if one more smartass drunk foreign chick grabs his ass, he's going to have to stop bringing explosives with him everywhere he goes if he doesn't want to blow up the entire goddamn train. (This is why he starts wearing suits instead of his old leather-and-chains get-up.)

And most of all, he's really fucking sick of that bitch following Yamamoto around like a goddamned puppy. Gokudera's known her all of three hours, and he already hates her.

Time to rewind – the day really starts to suck when Gokudera waits with the Tenth after one of Yamamoto's baseball practices. As much as life with the Vongola can be demanding on their lives, and as much as Gokudera craves that kind of action, sometimes it's nice to have little bits of normalcy find ways into their routines. One of them is Yamamoto's baseball career in the minor league, and the habit the Tenth makes out of coming to every practice he can manage. Of course, Gokudera comes along; he has come to terms with the fact that the baseball freak will always be just that – a baseball freak – and so he learns to be patient while sitting in a wide-open stadium with absolutely no cover whatsoever.

Today's practice is a pre-season practice scrimmage against another local minor league team. As usual, Yamamoto pitches like a pro and gives his team a glowing no-hitter for the record books. And as usual, Gokudera pretends he's bored, but saves the small, proud smile for a moment when he's pretty sure nobody's looking his way. It doesn't matter that this isn't an in-league game to Yamamoto; when he's in his 'zone', nothing is impossible for him – and that's something that Gokudera has come to admire (and rely on, whether he wants to admit that fact to himself or not).

After the practice game ends in Yamamoto's team's victory, Gokudera follows behind the Tenth with his hands in his suit jacket's pockets, trying to look uninterested. They're not even to the top of the stairs leading down to the dugout when a pretty girl beats them there, waving down Yamamoto.

Gokudera stops – doesn't realize he's frozen to the spot – when he sees Yamamoto turn at the girl's call, and doesn't realize he's clenching his fist when he sees Yamamoto _smiling back_ at the girl until he's drawn blood.

The Tenth also sees Yamamoto's new cling-on and pauses; Gokudera has to force himself to look uninterested when the Tenth looks back at him with a questioning look on his face.

"Do you know her?" he asks.

Gokudera shrugs noncommittally; he doesn't recognize her, but doesn't want to look like he cares. The Tenth makes a curious face as he turns around to watch the interaction below. Yamamoto is still smiling and laughing as he talks with the girl, and it makes Gokudera feel all kinds of… _something_. Not angry, because dammit, he doesn't give a fuck about the baseball freak or who he hits on or whatever. But something in his stomach twists, because this doesn't feel right to him.

Yamamoto looks up and sees them, waves with a smile and says something to the girl before he jogs to the bottom of the stairs. "Hey! Go on ahead; I'll be there later tonight," he says.

The Tenth smiles and waves back. "Okay! Give us a call if you need a ride!" And he turns to Gokudera with a smirk. "It's about time Yamamoto-kun found himself a girlfriend."

"Yeah," Gokudera says, but there's nothing behind the word. He doesn't know why he feels hurt – he doesn't like the baseball freak anyway, actually he kind of hates the idiot sometimes – but he says nothing, following the Tenth back to the limousine.

The girl joins them for dinner that night. Yamamoto introduces her as his "friend, Michiko," but says nothing more about their relationship than that. And it seems to Gokudera like she's trying too damn hard to make an impression on them. The more she laughs, the stronger the urge to either kill or run grows in Gokudera's stomach.

And the smile on Yamamoto's face just… makes him want to _punch something_.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck_.

The girl says something in Yamamoto's ear with a sneaky-bitch grin and a half-glance in Gokudera's fuming direction at the dinner table, and Gokudera nearly misses his plate as he stabs down with his fork. Yamamoto blinks, looks at her with an eyebrow raised, but he's smiling anyway – and when she gets up and pulls at his arm to go to the balcony, Gokudera's teeth start hurting (when did he start clenching them, anyway?). He almost says something – _does something, god what the fuck_ – but catches himself and takes a deep breath.

And it's then that Gokudera learns something about himself.

When he says things like, "Leave me alone, you fucking moron," and, "Fuck off, I'm studying," and, "Go find someone else to harass," he doesn't actually _mean_ them. Not to the baseball freak; _never_ to the baseball freak.

There's something he feels like he's missing, and he sees hints and snatches of it between Yamamoto and this bitch Michiko, and he didn't even know he was missing it until now. And now that he knows what he lacks, the desire grows to the point that it fucking hurts to breathe.

It's kind of like feeling he's being replaced as the Tenth's right hand man. But he never feels the same way when Kyoko or Haru fling themselves at his boss; it doesn't make him want to blow shit up or kick a puppy or go destroy an enemy base. It just makes him more determined to be stronger.

Michiko, the bitch, just makes him want to grab his hair and scream.

_This_, he finally realizes, _this is what jealousy feels like_.

And that's all it takes for him to think that _oh my god, I am fucking jealous over the goddamned idiot of a baseball freak_, and the idea is like a splash of cold water to his face.

He excuses himself after an appropriate amount of time, finding his way to the porch outside of his personal quarters (just down the hall from the Tenth's, just in case).

To tell himself that he doesn't care is a blatant lie – and if he's learned anything over these past eight years, it's that lying to himself gets him fucking nowhere. So he does what he's always done when things don't go his way.

He lets go, and moves on. Or, at least, tries to.

It's just a stupid little crush, anyway.

* * *

The feeling doesn't go away.

The occasional outings that Yamamoto goes on with that bitch just makes Gokudera feel a little more irritated. The admiration becomes distaste, becomes loathing. He comes up with fewer excuses to hang around the baseball idiot, and now when he says, "Leave me alone, you fucking moron," he actually kind of means it. And when the idiot accidentally forgets a meeting with the Guardians because he's out with Michiko, that small sliver of _hatehatehate _growing until it almost hurts once Yamamoto shows up (an entire fucking hour late) with an apologetically sheepish grin on his face.

It takes a lot of self-control that Gokudera isn't sure how he manages to _not _slam the idiot's head into the wall. Instead, he just lights up and leans back against the wall with a scowl, and continues the meeting. And makes sure he situates himself so that Hibari stands between them.

The family comes first, anyway. It's not like he has time to be mooning over an idiot that clearly doesn't give a damn, that still thinks their entire lives are some kind of fucking _game_. Well, whatever. He's got bigger fish to fry – they have to step up security, because even after they've taken extensive measures to scale down the Millefiore before they become a threat, they've still got a lot of enemies. Gokudera doesn't have fucking time to bother wasting his energy on other things.

… And he keeps telling himself that.

* * *

It's a week later that Gokudera finds himself wandering towards his favorite bar that he hasn't seen in a good while. He knows the Tenth is safe with Ryohei and Reborn at Yamamoto's baseball game and Gokudera's been working his ass off, so he feels like he's fucking entitled to his fucking night off.

Except Gokudera can't stop thinking about how Michiko is probably at the game, cheering from the sidelines and screaming her fucking bitch head off. And he can't stop thinking about how Yamamoto is pitching a perfect game – excellent form, graceful as he hurls the ball from the mound to the backstop, that dangerous glint in his eye and the _can't stop me now_ grin plastered across his face – and how it's probably _all_ _for that bitch_.

… He is _so_ going to get plastered tonight.

There's a new bartender working behind the counter tonight, though it's hard to say how _new _anyone is here anymore – it's been a while since Gokudera has been here. He orders a scotch – something he hasn't tried before, malty, on the rocks – and throws it back in a single swig. It's smooth and buttery, and _oh_, it feels good going down his throat in a burning trail of warmth.

On the fourth round of scotch, he's loosening his tie and eyeing the bartender, wondering why the bar's so damn quiet tonight and why the bartender's giving him the stink eye before sliding down the fourth glass of scotch. Gokudera sips it carefully this time, giving himself more time to taste it.

"What, haven't seen a drunk before?" he slurs, and then blinks as there's suddenly _three _bartenders. And _what the fuck_, he usually doesn't feel like this until the seventh or eighth round. Whatever this brand is that he's getting, it's gotta be pretty damn potent.

He sips it again, and lets the liquid roll around on his tongue–

_Fuck. Fuck, fuckfuckfuck – _he can't grip the glass anymore, and he thinks his head is about to roll straight off his shoulders if he leans back too far – nope, too late, he's sliding out of the chair–

A pair of too-muscled arms catch him as he falls backwards, and can't even muster the energy to struggle before the lights go out. And _then _he gets it – the bartender's stink eye and the weird-tasting scotch and the fact that he's a fucking moron.

_Fuck._

* * *

Gokudera isn't entirely sure what's happening, but it fucking _hurts_, like his head and his back and his stomach are all going to burst, and he thinks the moaning he keeps hearing is his own voice but his lips and nose and tongue are all too numb for him to really put two and two together. There are voices around him, but they all sound like they're from a long ways underwater and he knows he's not fucking drowning because he's breathing air, even though it hurts like a bitch–

He eventually does connect the dots, and barely manages to crack open a swollen eye to find that he's in the corner of a dimly-lit room, tied to a chair and feeling like he's missing half his face.

And _fuck_, isn't he the brilliant one now. All that talk of raising security, and he's become the fucking weak link – the one that gets bested by a handful of punks with the oldest fucking trick in the book. _Isn't that just fucking typical_.

He tests the bonds at his wrists, finds them well-tied – not getting out of these ones – and the ones at his ankles give him a similar sense that he's going to be stuck here for a long time. And that's just fucking peachy, because the others are at a damn baseball game and nobody's going to bother looking for him if he's not supposed to be due home until morning.

"He's awake." It's the first thing that Gokudera hears clearly.

"Good."

And without warning, there's a fist pounding into his gut and stealing his breath with a sharp _oof_.

"That's for taking our business, you fucking Vongola dog."

Gokudera gasps around the aching pit of a stomach he's got now, trying to catch his breath around the pain and the nausea that whatever it was they slipped him is causing him, and manages a scowl.

That earns him another sharp punch, this time catching his chin so roughly that he nearly bites his tongue when his teeth clack together so hard he swears he feels one of them crack. Moving his jaw experimentally after the sparks clear from his eyes, he gives his assailants a good look – and realizes that these tattooed, pierced-up and greasy-haired punks aren't likely even mafia.

_Yakuza. Fucking great._

"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about," Gokudera wheezes, after he catches a hint of a breath a moment later. "Vongola doesn't do business in the league of small fries like you fuckers."

The first guy huffs, like he's about to laugh, but instead something hard and heavy strikes Gokudera at the base of his neck, and he doesn't remember much after that.

* * *

The good thing about yakuza trying to mess with a mafia family as large as the Vongola – retribution is like watching a fucking elephant step on a fly. Gokudera isn't entirely aware while this happens, because even though the yakuza aren't nearly as intimidating as Mafioso can be, they still know how to beat the living shit out of a human being. And they hardly spared punches with Gokudera.

And _damn _but he's sore, but at least he's going to be allowed to sleep in his own fucking bed very fucking soon. As soon as whoever's been given the task of wheeling him back to his own bedroom shows up, that is.

The yakuza hadn't done much to him other than slug him a few dozen good times, cut him up – he'd needed quite a few stitches – before the cavalry came roaring in. After that, Gokudera doesn't really remember much. All he knows is that a bunch of small fries got the drop on him, and he's embarrassed as fucking hell.

Once the Vongola medic bandages and x-rays and sews Gokudera back together, he's told to take a week off, but he doesn't have to spend that time in a hospital. And yes, he will have to use the wheelchair to get back to his room; it's hospital fucking policy. Gokudera hopes to God the others will have the fucking sense to leave him be, let him wallow in his goddamned shame.

This is why he's an idiot for even thinking about enjoying a relationship outside of mutual alliances and protective friendships. He's okay with that, now – he gets it. He fucked up bad, because he _had_ to be a little schoolboy and let it distract him into a stupid mistake.

But it seems like certain idiots will remain idiots – no matter what kind of _fuck off_ attitude Gokudera had taken on earlier, there's still a quiet knock at his hospital door, and a softly spoken, _Gokudera?_ that sets his teeth on edge and makes him want to crawl in a hole and fucking die. _That_'s who the Tenth sent to pick him up? Sick fucking joke. It's the _last _person in the world he wants to talk to – much less see – right now. But he can't do anything but look away as the door slides open.

He feels Yamamoto's eyes on him, and he can sense that Yamamoto is tense and worried – and this only makes him feel angrier, because _damn _it, this is Yamamoto's fault. … Kind of. The idiot isn't supposed to be worried about him anyway – why does the moron even care?

There's a nurse following in Yamamoto's shadow, and when she bustles about Gokudera – unhooking his IVs, checking the stitches and replacing bandages, he finally catches a glimpse of Yamamoto's eyes tracing the lines of his injuries. He feels embarrassed, exposed, vulnerable, and on instinct, he glares back up at the asshole.

Who, of course, has the fucking audacity to flash his charming, brilliant, _I'm a fucking idiot_ grin.

"Don't say a fucking word," Gokudera snarls at him.

Yamamoto's grin falters into a grimace, but Gokudera doesn't watch to see if the baseball freak recovers the expression before he's ushered into a chair with a wince and a grunt of pain. The nurse seems to sense the tension buzzing in the air as Yamamoto takes control of the wheelchair and begins pushing it down the hall after the nurse.

The short walk/ride to Gokudera's room is uncomfortably quiet, but Gokudera is too annoyed and tired and he feels like shit, so why should he have to be the one to talk? At least Yamamoto isn't shooting his fool mouth off, but that much cooperation kind of surprises Gokudera. It surprises him enough that he actually tolerates the manhandling as Yamamoto helps him into something more suitable for sleeping, lets the idiot's hands flutter over him in a way he's only dreamt of – and probably can't continue to, at this rate. But once Yamamoto finishes getting him into his own damn bed (_thank god, his own goddamned bed_), Gokudera is ready to be alone. _Really_ ready. He's had enough.

He lies on his side, facing away from the door, and pretends to have fallen asleep, hoping that Yamamoto will get the fucking hint and leave him the fuck alone. But the silence and the distinct lack of quiet footsteps moving towards the door tell him that he's not going to be so lucky tonight.

Gokudera can't help but flinch when he feels Yamamoto's weight joining him on the bed. He can _smell_ the damn cologne that Yamamoto only wears when he's doing something important, like familial negotiations or going out on a date, and it makes him even more pissed off when the dumbass gets close enough that his breath tickles the exposed base of Gokudera's neck. What the fuck is the idiot trying to do, anyway? This can't be part of Yamamoto's orders, Gokudera is damned sure of that.

A hand snakes its way across his hip, and before Gokudera musters up enough rage to shove him away, he realizes that the large, strong, calloused hand is _shaking_ – fucking _trembling_ – as fingers brush against a large purple-black bruise near his bellybutton. The tingle of pain-pleasure makes Gokudera gasp, and he really does flinch this time, grabbing Yamamoto's hand and pushing it away as he rolls upright and scuffles away from the _goddamned fucking idiot – what the fuck is he pulling?_

"What the fuck do you want, Yamamoto?" he snarls, breathing harshly, gritting his teeth as his bruises throb in subtle reminder that he's not feeling all that great still.

Yamamoto looks almost hurt as he stares up from his position on his side, propped up on an elbow, but seems to have enough self-control to school his features into something that Gokudera can't fucking read, and it's driving him fucking _mad_. One breath drawn too sharply, and Gokudera's curling in around his ribs with a frustrated half-moan. Just because the hospital let him out doesn't mean he isn't in a fucking world of hurt – the pain is so blinding that he doesn't even resist as Yamamoto's hands help guide him back down to laying on his uninjured side.

"Shh," Yamamoto says, soothingly, brushing hair out of Gokudera's face as he's gasping in air. "S-Sorry– I just needed to…" and he stops, hesitating, and making Gokudera even _angrier_ because the idiot is doing everything he's wanted, but it's such a traitorous act because all Gokudera can think of is that fucking bitch Michiko.

Once Gokudera is sure he can breathe again without the little pain-demons stabbing their pitchforks into his stomach, he takes a deep breath and says – without turning around – "Just needed to _what_?"

Yamamoto's hand stops moving, leaving Gokudera to wonder at how soothing the motion had been, except that he's so sure he has a damned right to be upset. So what if his tone is a little harsher than he originally meant it to be? The idiot fucking deserves it.

Yamamoto's forehead suddenly is against the back of Gokudera's neck, and Yamamoto's breath is warm against his bare back. "I'm so damned sorry," he breathes, breath hitching on a sob, and suddenly Gokudera realizes that the idiot is _actually_ _serious_.

Or maybe he's just having a weird fucking dream again. Yeah, that's probably it. It's gotta be the drugs, or maybe he really did fall asleep–

"I should have paid more attention, should have–"

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Gokudera snaps, voice sounding as shaky as he's feeling right now as he half-turns.

"You… you haven't been yourself lately," Yamamoto says, and Gokudera resists the urge to snap a _yeah, well, you're a fine one to talk_. "I'm sorry that I didn't do something about it when I saw it happening."

Gokudera snorted. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? It's not like you knew those assholes were going to take a few cracks at me."

The sigh sends another puff of warm breath down Gokudera's spine and over his shoulder, and he denies the goose bumps that crawl over his arms and legs at the sensation. Yamamoto stays quiet, which only makes the anger return again. If Yamamoto doesn't just spit out what the fuck he wants to say in the next thirty seconds, Gokudera has half a mind to just kick the teasing bastard out, bed rest order be damned.

_Three. Two. One. … Damn you, Yamamoto._

"Look, it's getting late," Gokudera says icily. "I'm fucking exhausted, and I'm sure you've got _Michiko_ waiting for you back at your place–"

Yamamoto stiffens against Gokudera's back, and he thinks – with a masochistic sense of triumph – that he's nailed the dumbass right on the head, for about all of two seconds. A small bark of laughter ruffling the hairs on the back of his neck is all the warning he gets. Before he can blink, Yamamoto's sitting upright, but he's dragging Gokudera up as well so that his back rests against the baseball-toned chest. One hand around his forehead, and another around his waist lock him into place, and he can hear the fluttering _thump thump thump_ of Yamamoto's heartbeat against the back of his head.

"Michiko isn't my girlfriend, Gokudera," Yamamoto says, his voice rumbling pleasantly against Gokudera's back.

"What does that have to do with–"

"She was an old classmate from the school I went to before I transferred to Namimori." A soft snort, and then, "She's just a good friend. She did ask me out, though, but I declined."

Something flutters in Gokudera's chest, but he doesn't want to acknowledge _that feeling_ just yet – this doesn't necessarily mean that Yamamoto is… _No._ He frowns; then why the hell is the idiot spending so much time with her, if they aren't dating?

"Why?"

"I told her there was someone else I was interested in." Again, the words rumble pleasantly against Gokudera's back, and he almost finds himself _comfortable_ here, and– _wait a second, what was that?_ _Who?_

He doesn't even want to entertain the possibility that maybe, _just maybe_… _Is this all a lie, then?_

The way Yamamoto's hands tighten around him – the way Yamamoto's breath on his neck is harsh and _needy_ and _ohgod, are those his lips?_ – this isn't real. This was the drugs, or his mind, playing a cruel, cruel trick on him, and _haha – very funny, you shitty asshole_.

But the more he says that to himself, the more he knows he's only lying to himself.

Because those _are _Yamamoto's lips, and he's brushing them along the side of Gokudera's neck in a way that can hardly be read as anything less than it is. Yamamoto's breath comes in harsh, warm pants that speak of need and worry and a thousand other emotions, and the fragile feeling growing in Gokudera's chest is beginning to grow uncomfortable, like it's about to break.

"I was so damned worried," Yamamoto finally says in a soft whisper. "When you didn't show up at the game, or back at the estate after, I… I didn't know what I'd do if–"

Gokudera snorts, a shaky half-laugh that leaves him feeling almost sick as he realizes what Yamamoto is saying. And maybe it's the drugs or just his own damned exhaustion, but after the rough last couple of days, he _needs _this – whatever _this _is – right now. He finally lets one of his hands fall over the large, sports-calloused hand that's wrapped around his hipbone.

"You idiot – you damned _idiot_," he whispers, but the words are gently spoken and have no anger behind them. "Why didn't you say something sooner?"

Yamamoto's breath pauses, hitches against Gokudera's neck as his arms pull Gokudera even closer. The idiot's hands are still shaking a little bit, and if Gokudera isn't mistaken, it sounds like Yamamoto is about to cry–

_Shit._

"It's okay now," he says, assuring. "I'm okay – those yakuza were just a bunch of punks, and I was stupid to let them catch me off guard. They didn't hurt me that badly – _ow_!" Yamamoto's arms loosen their grip just a little, and Gokudera sighs. "Okay, so maybe they did beat me up a little. But it isn't that serious."

Yamamoto snorts against his neck in a laugh. "Sorry," he says sheepishly.

"Yeah, well. You'd better be." But Gokudera is smiling, shifting and carefully nestling further into his comfortable 'chair'. He's warm and feeling safe, and things finally aren't looking so bad after all – and it's making his eyelids feel like leaden weights against his eyes.

"Rest," Yamamoto whispers, and Gokudera's already halfway there.

When he wakes up, he's alone – but there's a note beside his bed with the promise of breakfast coming soon in Yamamoto's careless handwriting. Gokudera allows himself a small smile before he realizes that there's a very real possibility of having sushi for breakfast. He almost laughs to himself, but remembers his bruised ribs. Wincing, he rolls out of bed and stumbles toward the kitchen, hoping to catch Yamamoto before he gets too far into making a Japanese-style breakfast.

He makes it just in time, much to Yamamoto's surprise (_You're up! Wait, shouldn't you still be in bed–_). There's an almost sheepish look on the idiot's grinning face that makes Gokudera wonder if there's any hint of regret there. He cuts off Yamamoto's worried tirade.

"Pancakes," he says sternly. "And strong black coffee."

Yamamoto smiles, and the small trace of guilt disappears under that stupid, goofy grin of his. And it's then that Gokudera realizes he'd be lying if he didn't love the warm feeling that grin left, when it was directed at him.

Gokudera made a mental note to make sure it didn't take a thorough beating to get a point across, the next time. But with Yamamoto, he had a feeling there probably wouldn't be a next time. With all the smiling of a proper housewife – _haha…… wait a second, what the fuck am I thinking?!_ – Yamamoto slides him a steaming hot mug of fresh black coffee.

When Yamamoto's back turned to work on pancakes, Gokudera allowed himself a smile around the steam coming from the coffee mug.

(Until he splits the stitch holding his badly-split lip together, and gets coffee into the open cut. Even the brightest of Yamamoto's smiles aren't enough to keep Gokudera from swearing until he's blue in the face as he tries to dab the blood away from his face before Yamamoto sees.

Which he does. As Yamamoto dutifully burns the pancakes while he scrambles for the first aid kit and a couple of pieces of butterfly tape, Gokudera swears that whatever gods are staring down over him is probably laughing up a storm at his expense.

Ah, well – the next batch of pancakes are delicious, even as Gokudera tries to ignore the fact that they're pre-cut into tiny, tiny pieces. _Fucking idiot._

But this is _his_ idiot, and that's all that matters to him at this point.)

* * *

_end track._

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Note on the title: _Cornetti_ is the modern Italian name for an ancient Roman talisman _cornicello_, carved in the shape of a horn from plastic or precious metal, and is traditionally used to protect against evils like the "evil eye."

Also, there is a podfic version of this story available for download as well, courtesy of keitorin of livejournal. Please check out the fiction index at my livejournal (bakabokken dot livejournal dot com), and a link to the download is available under this story's description there. … If anyone's interested, that is.

As always, feedback is very much appreciated and coveted! Thank you for reading!


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